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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25723051">you are my sweetest downfall.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockdog/pseuds/punkrockdog'>punkrockdog</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Unreliable Narrator, just talking about theo's attempt in amsterdam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:15:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25723051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockdog/pseuds/punkrockdog</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing wrong with sleeping with his best friend of almost ten years on a regular basis. </p><p>If Theo tells himself this enough, he might start to believe it.</p><p>(title from Samson by Regina Spektor)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Theodore Decker &amp; Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker &amp; Pippa, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>177</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you are my sweetest downfall.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Theo looks at himself in the mirror one morning, takes his toothbrush out of his mouth, and realizes, with startling clarity, that <em> I am fucking miserable.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He’s twenty-four and he’s never lived on his own. He doesn’t know how to take care of himself - his years in Vegas proved that much. </p><p> </p><p>Thinking about living by himself, moving out, <em> leaving Hobie, </em>it’s too much, and he tends to sweat and panic if he dwells on it for too long. </p><p> </p><p>He knows it’s childish and immature to get so upset about it. He is an adult. He should learn to make his own way in the world. He needs to grow up. He <em> knows </em>these things; he obsesses over them at night, scolding himself for every single mistake he’s ever made that has led him to where he is now. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not like living with Hobie and running the shop is bad, or what’s making him particularly depressed. He loves Hobie, of course, and he still adores the shop. But trying to fit back into the person he was before Amsterdam, before Antwerp, before the night Boris called out his name on the street, it didn’t feel right. He has changed too much and not enough. He can’t just go downstairs and make sales every day for the rest of his life. And without the fakes to sell, there are hardly any sales to be made, which means the majority of his shifts are spent reading, or staring off into space, or (on particularly slow days) mixing pills from his tin to see what will happen. So far, he hasn’t died, but he has lost a handful of customers by being either asleep or too fucked up to register their existence. Fortunately, Hobie is almost always in the workshop, and has not caught him thus far. </p><p> </p><p>Theo figures that getting an apartment for himself might help. He could use the space, the privacy. It’s not like he’s in the business of bringing any company over, but if he were going to, it <em> would </em>be nice to have the place to themselves. </p><p> </p><p>Theo shakes his head, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. </p><p> </p><p>The skin under his eyes looks bruised and thin. He remembers Boris sweeping a finger over the area, <em> such dark circles. </em>He leans forward to spit into the sink. He wonders, as he often does these days, if that was his last time ever seeing Boris. He has a number and an address (though he doesn’t know if the place in Antwerp was very permanent), but God knows if either of them will be any help trying to track down someone like Boris. He had been explicitly, purposely vague about his job, his life, where he lived and where he traveled. He has a thousand stories for a thousand different places; he’s always moving, leaving, onto the next adventure.</p><p> </p><p>It had been the perfect bit of coincidence, bumping into Boris how he did. Boris kept going on and on about fate, about how fortune had brought them together again. Theo is partially convinced that he was right.</p><p> </p><p>Kitsey had several questions for him when he got back, or more accurately, two weeks after he got back and she had managed to track him down. Middle of the night, Theo half-gone and on his third line, banging on the door of the shop and yelling for him to let her in. It was the angriest he’d ever seen her, the most passionate and alive she had ever been in front of him. He could see little sparks popping off of her, her eyes burning low with a building fire. (That part might have been the Oxycontin.)</p><p> </p><p>She told him rather plainly, after getting as many details as she could out of him (old friend, cold feet, a few weeks of partying and booze and not much else, a careful and comfortable lie that she wouldn't look at too hard), that she thought it was best for them to call things off. He remembers looking at her and laughing, nodding his head in agreement. She had turned on her heel and left more collected than when she had arrived. <em> That was easy, </em>Theo thought. She and Tom are seeing a lot more of each other now, apparently, which is absolutely fine by Theo. He is more relieved than he should be, not having to marry her anymore.</p><p> </p><p>He does feel a touch bad, disappointing Mrs. Barbour like that, leaving her high and dry after she had gotten her hopes up, but he figures it’s for the best. A few years of Mr. and Mrs. Decker and he would have resented them all. At least now no one is expecting anything of him. He doesn't have to be something he’s not. He doesn’t have to pretend anymore. </p><p> </p><p>He thinks again of Boris, and of his wife and children in Stockholm. He knows it’s probably not true, knows Boris well enough to know that he would never get married, would never settle down, however loosely he seems to be tied to his family. </p><p> </p><p>But what Theo can’t figure out is why Boris would lie about something like that. Theo has never really judged Boris, not even for taking the painting. He’s been mad at him, sure, had thought he deserved a punch in the teeth and given it to him, too. But is Theo really that much of an asshole that Boris felt the need to lie in order to, what? Make it seem like he had his shit figured out? To try and convince Theo that he’s changed, moved on, bettered himself? </p><p> </p><p>There is, of course, the possibility that Boris was telling the truth, and that he is married. The thought sends a weird desperation all throughout Theo, almost like the feeling that accompanied seeing Kitsey and Tom kiss. He’s not jealous, though. Why would he be? It’s just hard to picture Boris at the end of the aisle, waiting happily for his beautiful wife, and even harder to imagine him the father of three children. Boris has always been a caretaker, at least to Theo, so maybe he would be good at that. Parenting. It still makes Theo feel like he’s been thrown off-kilter - dizzy, sick, irritated and upset. </p><p> </p><p>He dresses for work, mechanically pulling on his shirt, his slacks, his socks. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He fusses with his hair in the mirror, sprays himself with cologne. </p><p> </p><p>He goes to open the door and go downstairs for breakfast. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t. </p><p> </p><p>He stares stupidly at the knob for a few minutes, trying to dig up the will to just go downstairs and start his day. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t. </p><p> </p><p>He feels empty, hollowed out. He sits down hard on his bed and looks at his shoes. The thought of having to spend another day in the store, alone and bored and tragically sober, makes tears well up in his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>He sits on his bed staring dumbly at the wall for what feels like hours. Someone knocks on his door, and he startles slightly. He grunts, low and sad sounding. <em> Come in. </em></p><p> </p><p>Hobie doesn’t, always so respectful of Theo and his boundaries. </p><p> </p><p>“Theo? Are you alright? You haven’t opened the shop yet and it’s a quarter past ten.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sick?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo looks at the door, an idea quickly forming. Play sick. He did it a handful of times as a kid, groggy voice and false fever, and he’s sure he can fool Hobie. A pang of guilt hits him in the chest, the idea of lying to Hobie after so many years of already doing so, wrecking his trust again after promising to always tell him what’s really going on. </p><p> </p><p>But Theo doesn’t feel good, and he sure as hell can’t fathom working today, so it’s not so much a lie as it is stretching the truth. Just a bit. </p><p> </p><p>“I think so,” Theo says back. He suddenly feels strange in his suit and dress shoes, his expensive belt and fancy tie. His skin itches all over. He hopes that Hobie won’t come in and see him fully dressed and sitting on his bed like an idiot. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Rest up,” Hobie says. Theo practically deflates with relief. He drags himself through the process of undressing, throwing his clothes into the corner of his room. He changes into a sweater Pippa gave him and a pair of sweatpants that might have, at some point, belonged to Welty. </p><p> </p><p>He spends all day in bed, dozing off and reading but mostly just thinking, as he is wont to do. His mind drifts listlessly from Pippa (red hair, morphine lollipop, crushing heartbreak and then getting over it in almost no time) to Kitsey (sparkling champagne, diamonds and pearls, anger, betrayal, resignation, acceptance) to his mother (dark hair, white coat, pain pain pain oh God it won’t stop <em> hurting) </em>and to just about anything. At the back of his mind he sees curls, dark heavy languages, vodka and oil slick clothes and bruised mouths and bloody knuckles. He looks away each time but it all stays in his peripheral, taunting and mocking. </p><p> </p><p>He certainly <em> feels </em>sick. His head hurts, and his vision is foggy. He’s exhausted right down to his bones. His throat is scratchy, and his stomach keeps rolling in waves of nausea. Does he always feel like this? He hopes he doesn’t have the flu.</p><p> </p><p>Hobie knocks on his door again around six, and lets himself in when Theo doesn’t answer. He’s been staring at the same spot on the ceiling for fifteen minutes and trying to remember how to say <em> you sick fucking bastard </em>in Russian. </p><p> </p><p>Hobie brings him a sandwich and a glass of water. He sets it on the nightstand and looks down at Theo, tsking at the huddled figure wrapped up in the sheets. </p><p> </p><p>“You really came down with something, huh?” he says, touching the back of his hand to Theo’s forehead, seeking out a fever. He startles, then frowns. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re awfully warm, Theo.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo just nods. He doesn’t feel particularly feverish, though the back of his neck is damp with sweat and the blankets are twisted up from being kicked off and pulled back on. He shrugs when Hobie doesn’t say anything else. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve had worse,” he says hoarsely. He’s felt worse, that’s for sure. Getting off of heroin is never easy, and his days at the hotel in Amsterdam had him feeling the worst he’s ever felt. </p><p> </p><p>Hobie nods. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen.” </p><p> </p><p>He leaves, closing the door behind him. Theo shifts and curls into himself. This is stupid. He’s a fucking adult, and Hobie just had to come in and bring him dinner because he’s too miserable to do it himself. </p><p> </p><p>He wishes desperately, stupidly for his mother, like he used to when he was younger, an all consuming want that squeezes at his ribcage. He just wants to stop feeling like <em> this. </em>He wants to stop feeling like the world is crushing him all the time, like if everything just ceased for good, he might be fine. </p><p> </p><p>He thinks back to Amsterdam. His attempt. How sweet the anticipation of death felt in the moment. </p><p> </p><p>He thinks back to Boris saving him. Hands grabbing his face, fingers down his throat, walking in the snow, falling down in the hall and Boris picking him back up. He remembers that Boris cried. He cried for a long time after Theo was okay again. He was angry for a bit, flicking Theo’s ear and cursing at him, but mostly he just sat there with the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes, shoulders shaking as he quietly sobbed. </p><p> </p><p>Theo was too out of it to comfort him. He couldn’t provide reassurance, he couldn’t tell Boris that he <em> didn’t mean it </em>or promise that it wouldn’t happen again. He just lied on the bed and listened to Boris cry. </p><p> </p><p>He’s crying now, he realizes suddenly. He drags the sleeve of his sweater under his eyes and then presses his face further into the pillow. His stomach lurches. He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent from vomiting. </p><p> </p><p>Hobie comes in again to set two ibuprofen tablets on the nightstand, but he’s in and out without a word and Theo pretends to be asleep, anyways. He swallows the pills and takes two bites of the sandwich. He chews for what feels like forever. His mouth tastes like sand. He feels even more sick. He puts it back on the plate and lies down again. </p><p> </p><p>Theo sleeps through the night with little issue. If he moves his head at all it starts to throb and his stomach starts to stir, so he lies still on his back and tries his best not to dream. </p><p> </p><p>It almost works. It’s all just wisps, tail ends of stories, the last thirty seconds of a movie before the credits roll. </p><p> </p><p>Theo, newly fifteen, sand in his hair and looking at the sky. Pippa turning away from him to go inside. His mother stepping out of a taxi. Andy moving his queen across the board. It all leaves Theo feeling like he’s just missed something. He can’t seem to catch up. He’s always a step behind. He sees Kitsey and Tom on the street, and he’s just about to step forward to say something when he wakes up.</p><p> </p><p>He opens his eyes and the light coming in from the window makes his skull feel like it’s splitting in two. He doesn’t feel any better. There’s a weight on his chest pressing him into the mattress, grinding his bones to dust. He truly wants nothing more to lie there until he rots. </p><p> </p><p>Hobie doesn’t ask him if he feels like working today. He comes in with food and water and medicine intermittently. Theo thanks him each time, and knows that he will have to do something for him when he starts feeling better. Hobie brushes off all of his apologies, pushing gently on Theo’s shoulder when he starts to sit up, borderline hysterical and pleading.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, please. You think I would let you sit in here and wallow by yourself?”</p><p> </p><p>(There has been quite a bit of wallowing, but Theo smiles all the same and goes back to sleep. He wonders if, like himself, Hobie is reminded of Pippa and her bedridden days, always half-asleep, always fuzzy at the edges.)</p><p> </p><p>Theo stays in bed for three more days. </p><p> </p><p>He slips in and out of sleep. He gets up only to vomit or use the bathroom (which, he supposes, are the same thing). Popchyk stays curled up at his side for the most part, only leaving to be walked and fed. He nestles into the space between Theo’s arm and waist, snoring lightly. Theo strokes his head absentmindedly until he either falls asleep as well or Popchyk gets up to stretch. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a peaceful, miserable few days. He feels awful, unproductive, sweaty, still so exhausted even though he’s done nothing but sleep. He knows, in some low, back part of his mind, that this is more than being sick. He’s not sure if he actually is sick. He won’t go to the doctor, no matter how many times Hobie asks, insisting that he’ll be back on his feet soon, promising that he’s doing miles better than he was yesterday. It’s never true, and Hobie has to know that, but he plays along all the same. </p><p> </p><p>Before Theo knows it, it’s Friday night. He feels slightly anxious at having wasted a whole week, stomach in knots as he thinks about the lost profit. He tries to push it out of his mind. </p><p> </p><p>Popchyk has moved from his side to his stomach, nuzzling happily into Theo’s sweater. His eyes sweep across the room; same old bureau and nightstand and closet, same old green walls and desk. He lands on his dresser, squints at it like if he looks hard enough he’ll be able to see through the wood, to the socks and underwear and pill tin inside</p><p> </p><p>He sits up suddenly. Popchyk yelps at being jostled. Theo apologizes, leans down to press a kiss to the dog’s head. </p><p> </p><p>If he’s going to sit around feeling sorry for himself, he might as well try to have a bit of fun.</p><p> </p><p>He moves Popchyk to the floor and tosses the bedclothes off. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His stomach and head and pretty much his entire body protest at the movement, and it gets worse when he stands. He <em> reeks, </em>which is more than a little bit embarrassing, and he considers showering before he dips into his stash, but decides that can wait until tomorrow morning. He has his fingers around the knob of the drawer when the bedroom door swings open. </p><p> </p><p>He looks over, alarmed, ready for Hobie to say something about him being up, <em> maybe tomorrow you can join me for breakfast.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Boris stares back at him instead. </p><p> </p><p>His hand is still poised to open the drawer, but he can’t seem to get his brain to catch up with his body. He figures he should say something but he comes up empty. Boris’s face breaks into a grin. Popchyk waddles up to him and barks once before nuzzling his leg. </p><p> </p><p>“Long time, no see, eh?” he teases. Theo remains silent. </p><p> </p><p>“What, I don’t even get hello? No oh, Boris, so good to see you, missed you terribly, glad you are here? Am I stranger now?” he says haughtily.</p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo says after a moment. “What are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>Boris’s face lights up. “Mr. Hobie called me!”</p><p> </p><p>“He - what? Hobie called you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes! Gave him my number and said to call if you were ever in trouble or got hurt or something. He calls me and says you have been in bed almost a week and will not go to doctor. I tell him I come as soon as possible.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo blinks at him. He can’t quite wrap his mind around any of it, especially not the part where Boris dropped everything and came to New York because Theo was feeling a little under the weather. </p><p> </p><p>“You just… came over here? Just like that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I? So, what, you have flu? Cold?” Boris asks, moving towards Theo, extending a hand to touch his forehead. Theo steps back. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Why wouldn’t you? </em> Boris, you have a wife. And a family. You came all this way because I was sick?”</p><p> </p><p>Boris looks embarrassed now. He rubs the back of his neck and looks away, at the books sitting on Theo’s desk.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, Potter. I did not know you were… I will leave. Should not have come.”</p><p> </p><p>Before he can even think, Theo steps forward and grabs Boris’s arm. They look at each other for a charged second. Theo can’t breathe. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to leave. I just-,” he closes his eyes and shakes his head, “I was confused. I didn’t know if you were ever going to come back. I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo feels stupid. He wants to take it all back. He should have let Boris leave. He shouldn’t have to deal with Theo, with his temper and moods and lack of self-preservation skills. He lets go of Boris’s arm, but Boris grabs his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter,” he says solemnly. Theo leans forward a touch, not entirely consciously, like he’s just naturally drawn to Boris. “Get in shower. You fucking stink.”</p><p> </p><p>So, Theo showers. </p><p> </p><p>He turns the knob all the way to the right and stands under the burning spray, skin turning pink with heat. He gets shampoo in his eyes and drops the bottle of body wash, disoriented and dizzy from all the excitement. He spends a few long minutes just standing there and staring at the wall, trying to rationalize Boris’s presence. Something about seeing him standing in that room made Theo’s heart race and his palms sweat. It made him nervous. He doesn’t know why Boris makes him so nervous. </p><p> </p><p>The cool air of the bathroom feels nice on his skin when he steps out. He reaches for his clothes, but thinks better of it. He wraps his towel tight around his waist, opens the door just a crack. Boris is sitting on the opposite side of the hall, playing with Popchyk and laughing. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo whispers. Boris looks up. “Could you get me some clothes from my room? The ones I was wearing are too dirty.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris jumps up, nodding. “Of course, Potter.” Theo smiles gratefully and shuts the door. </p><p> </p><p>Boris brings him a thin, black long sleeved shirt and a pair of worn flannel pajama pants. He brushes his teeth after he gets dressed. He feels better. He’s not sure how he feels about feeling better. </p><p> </p><p>He comes back into his room to see his bed stripped completely. There is an overly full laundry basket at Boris’s feet. Theo frowns.</p><p> </p><p>“Boris, it’s late. I’ll wash them tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Come stay with me in hotel tonight,” Boris says. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris - ”</p><p> </p><p>“Two beds, do not worry. We have good time, like old days, yeah?” Boris says quickly, rushing over Theo before he can say anything. </p><p> </p><p>Theo looks at Boris and knows he won’t let up. He sighs, defeated. </p><p> </p><p>“Let me get my coat.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo packs his toothbrush, his deodorant, his comb, a change of clothes for the morning, and the tin of pills. He can’t help but wave it at Boris, both of them laughing at the way they rattle against the metal. Boris goes downstairs to put Theo’s sheets and blankets in the washing machine. He comes back up with wet, soapy hands and a frown. </p><p> </p><p>“Have you ever used a washing machine before?” Theo asks. Boris scowls. </p><p> </p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>They say goodbye to Hobie and Popchyk, who starts to whine when Boris steps out the door. He turns around and leans down to scoop the dog up. He kisses his nose. </p><p> </p><p>“Be back soon, darling,” he coos. Popchyk licks his cheek. </p><p> </p><p>Hobie chuckles and Theo just rolls his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“You boys have fun,” Hobie says, giving them a big, theatrical wink before closing the door. Theo feels his cheeks flush, and Boris cackles. </p><p> </p><p>“What a nice man,” he sighs. Theo grabs his elbow to steer him towards the car. </p><p> </p><p>He knows what it must look like. Going to a hotel with the man he left his own engagement party with. Once again barely hesitating before saying yes, because he isn’t sure how to say no to Boris anymore, which could end up being a big problem. </p><p> </p><p>Regardless, he knows what Hobie must think. He wonders what Hobie thought when Boris gave him his number and told him to call if need be. Because Boris wanted to make sure Theo was okay. </p><p> </p><p>He shuts his eyes tight for a second, pushing down a horrible wave of nausea. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter? What’s wrong?” Boris asks. He’s holding the door open for Theo and looking at him like he’s fucking crazy. </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing. Just - sorry, let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris looks like he wants to push it, but he shoos Theo into the car and shuts the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Gyuri, you remember Potter,” Boris says. Gyuri nods, looking at Theo in the rearview.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you, Fyodor?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m good, thank you. It’s nice to see you again,” Theo says awkwardly. Gyuri either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, and he starts driving. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” Boris says, leaning back comfortably, “you are married man now, yes? You and ice queen tie the knot?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, um. We broke up, actually. A while ago.”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“We broke up. The wedding is off.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris stares at him for a long few seconds. The silence in the car is horribly thick, and Theo can’t stand to look at Boris right then. </p><p> </p><p>He turns his head to look out the windshield, New York zipping past them at an alarming speed. The blur of streetlights, the close quarters of the backseat, the nervousness and uncertainty in Theo’s stomach is all so reminiscent of that night just shy of a year ago. Theo wishes they could stay like this forever - in the backseat with Gyuri driving, nowhere to be, nothing better to do than this, no one they would rather be with. A permanent in-between. It wouldn’t be so bad. </p><p> </p><p>Boris still isn’t saying anything, and Theo is about to ask what the fuck his problem is when he reaches underneath the seat and pulls out a bottle of vodka. It looks expensive. Theo raises an eyebrow in suspicion. </p><p> </p><p>“We celebrate,” Boris says plainly.</p><p> </p><p>“You want to celebrate my break up? Fuck you, dude,” Theo huffs. Boris reaches out and punches Theo’s knee. Theo pitches forward in his seat and Boris uses the opportunity to pinch his cheek. </p><p> </p><p>“We celebrate you getting out of unloving marriage, yes? Celebrate that you are free man!” Boris says jovially, tugging on Theo’s cheek. Theo pulls Boris’s hand away, keeping his wrist in a loose grip. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to go out. I’m not even dressed,” he says. It’s useless, and he knows this, and Boris knows this. Theo will eventually say yes to whatever Boris asks him to do, no matter how begrudgingly. But Boris just shakes his head, <em> bah, Potter, you do not get it.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“When have we ever needed bar to drink? We have plenty fun ourselves!” </p><p> </p><p>Theo can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. He plucks the bottle from Boris’s hand and opens it, letting go of Boris’s wrist once he realizes he’s still holding it. He takes a long pull. The liquor burns clean and easy down his throat. He grimaces and hands it back. </p><p> </p><p>“Is good vodka, Potter. You are just pussy,” Boris says, deadpan. Theo flips him off. </p><p> </p><p>They drink almost two thirds of the bottle and by the time they pull up to the hotel, Theo is flushed and giggling. Boris is leaning on him, one arm slung around his shoulders. He presses a wad of bills into Gyuri’s hand and mutters something, low and rich-sounding, in Russian. The sound of Boris’s voice, of his Russian, so familiar and warm to his ear, makes Theo feel light and airy. Not even three hours ago he was holed up in his room, sulking about nothing and worrying Hobie half to death. </p><p> </p><p>He laughs. Why is he always so dramatic?</p><p> </p><p>Boris moves his arm from Theo’s shoulders to the crook of his elbow and walks them towards the entrance. He waves a keycard at a bored looking doorman who lets them in. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a nice hotel, not the most expensive but Theo doesn’t care. Boris could bring him to the dirtiest, shittiest, cheapest place in the state of New York and he would still be thrilled. Having Boris there is enough. </p><p> </p><p>They share the elevator ride with a stuffy looking couple, clearly old money, all pearls and cashmere and snobbery. The woman wrinkles her nose, shaking her head in judgement. Theo gets the urge to tell her to fuck off. He presses his mouth to Boris’s shoulder to stop himself from saying anything. Boris rests his head on top of Theo’s. The man coughs, takes his wife’s hand pointedly, and looks at them. Boris looks over Theo’s head and even though he can’t see it, he knows exactly what Boris’s face looks like. Jaw set, eyebrows knitted together, eyes smouldering. <em> What the fuck is your problem? </em></p><p> </p><p>The couple gets off two floors before them. As soon as the door closes, Theo breaks out into a fit of laughter. Boris joins, of course, and hearing each other laugh only makes them laugh harder. </p><p> </p><p>They stumble into the room laughing, tripping over each other’s feet, which makes them laugh even more. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a big room, and Boris’s things are scattered around one half of it. The other half of the room is untouched, unmarred by Boris’s dirty boots and wool coat and concerningly cheap cologne. Theo lets his eyes flit from thing to thing, from toiletries to suitcase to notebook. </p><p> </p><p>Their laughter dies down until the room is filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing, labored and heavy and loud. </p><p> </p><p>“Why did you get a room with two beds?” Theo slurs. It takes him a very long time to come up with the words. </p><p> </p><p>“Huh?” Boris says back. He’s splayed out on his bed, in the process of trying to kick his shoes off. It’s a very endearing sight. Theo shakes his head and tries again to get the question out the way he wants.</p><p> </p><p>“If you… did you plan on inviting me to the hotel?” </p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure why it matters to him. He can’t quite connect it all in his head; he knows it’s strange that Boris booked a double when he was visiting him because he was sick, but he can’t really remember why. He just knows it’s something that, if he were more sober, he would be concerned about. </p><p> </p><p>Theo walks over and sits on his own bed, facing Boris. Boris won’t look at him but that doesn’t stop Theo from staring, trying to pry the answers he wants from his brain. It doesn’t work. Their shared telepathy only goes so far. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter, you are depressed,” Boris says firmly. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s why Hobie called you,” he says, slow and careful, just in case he’s wrong. Boris doesn’t interrupt him. He doesn’t say anything, actually. He keeps staring at the ceiling. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo says. A beckon. Boris doesn’t bite. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Boris,” </em>he tries again, and Boris finally turns his head to look at him. </p><p> </p><p>“You know what Mr. Hobie said to me?” Boris starts, heated and bitter. </p><p> </p><p>“He says, Boris, I am sorry for doing this, but please, he will not get out of bed, will not leave room, won’t eat or shower. He says you might kill yourself, he does not know. He was <em> scared, </em>Potter,” Boris explains. It sounds too sober, too coherent for how much he drank. It makes Theo’s head spin, and he lies down the wrong way on the bed. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not depressed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ha!” Boris barks, but it’s hollow and cold and not at all what Theo is used to hearing. “You lay in bed for days and you say not depressed? Bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo stands up then, swaying for a moment before stepping forward so he can loom over Boris. Boris looks up at him but doesn’t move. His eyes are wide, shining. He’s craning his head in a way that leaves his throat exposed, and Theo spends a second too long looking at the pale expanse of his neck. </p><p> </p><p>“Take picture, will last longer,” Boris says, listless. Theo scowls. </p><p> </p><p>“So you came here to, to what? Babysit me? I’m not some fucking charity case, Boris. I’m an adult. And I’m fine, I just,” he stops, not quite sure how to finish. </p><p> </p><p>“You just what, Potter? Tell me,” Boris says softly. Theo closes his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. I’m tired.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then go to bed. I take us out to breakfast tomorrow morning. Get some sleep,” Boris says decisively. Theo’s whole body flashes hot. His knees buckle for a second, and he tips forward, just a bit.</p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” he says hoarsely, “Boris. Sit up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Too drunk,” Boris groans. He’s closed his eyes. He looks asleep, almost. Theo gets the insane urge to lean down and kiss him, like Prince Philip waking up Aurora. </p><p> </p><p>He kneels next to the bed instead, bracing his hands on the mattress. Boris doesn’t move, but he makes a non committal sort of hum. It sounds like a question. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo whispers. “Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want?” Boris says thickly, like he was actually asleep and Theo just woke him. He turns his head again to look at Theo, and they’re a lot closer than Theo originally thought. </p><p> </p><p>“I want - I think we should, uh - I want to - ”</p><p> </p><p>He’s so <em> close, </em>and Theo knows how easy it would be, to just lean forward and close the gap between them. He doesn’t even know what exactly it is that he wants, or what he was even asking for. He can’t think about anything other than Boris’s mouth. </p><p> </p><p>He thinks that he’s wanted to kiss Boris for a very, very long time now. </p><p> </p><p>“You are drunk. Get in bed,” Boris says softly. </p><p> </p><p>Theo leans back, startled. Boris gives him a weak smile before turning over and shutting his eyes again. He looks sad, less serene than he had before Theo woke him up. Before Theo said something and made a mess. </p><p> </p><p>He stands up. He takes his shoes off, shrugs his coat off and hangs it over the back of the desk chair. He sets his glasses on the bedside table before getting under the blanket, turning towards the wall so he won’t have to look at Boris. As soon as he closes his eyes he’s asleep, his head filling with warm, dull static that sometimes gives way to things he would rather not see. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The morning comes in screaming. Violent light streams through the open curtains of the hotel room. Theo groans and buries his head into his pillow. Boris is moving around in the bathroom and Theo listens to him get ready, trying to savor the last few seconds of comfort before being thrown into a world that is much too bright and much too loud. </p><p> </p><p>“You should get up. We have nine o’clock reservation,” Boris calls from the bathroom. Theo groans into the pillow again. He finds it odd that someone as seasoned as him still gets brutal hangovers. There’s some irony there, some lesson or joke maybe, but he’s too exhausted to try and figure it out. </p><p> </p><p>He dresses as fast as he can. He brushes his teeth, steals some of Boris’s cologne, and goes to meet Boris at the door. He knows, rationally, that the air between them should be awkward and heavy. If he and Boris were more well-adjusted, there would be a morning of tense silences and fleeting glances ahead of them. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, Boris just snorts and tells Theo that he looks like shit. Theo punches his arm and tells him to fuck off. </p><p> </p><p>They’re quiet for most of the car ride but that’s only because they are both queasy and talking (or opening their mouths in general) seems like a bad idea. Boris nudges Theo’s foot with his. Theo looks up, and Boris raises his eyebrows. Theo smiles a little, muscle memory. That’s what Boris always did after a fight. It’s saying <em> are you okay? Are we okay? Do you forgive me? </em> Theo’s answer was always, always <em> yes, yes, of course. </em>Theo knows he should be the one asking for forgiveness. He knows what he did was out of pocket, crossing a line that had been drawn years ago. </p><p> </p><p>But Boris smiles back at him, and the sun is making his skin look like it’s glowing from the inside out, so he just nudges him back. </p><p> </p><p>The restaurant Boris has chosen is cozy, quaint and small and warm. Theo isn’t entirely sure a place likes this even takes reservations. The walls are painted a deep green, and they’re lined with fixtures holding small electric candles, giving the room a soft glow. The floor is wood, polished yet still worn. </p><p> </p><p>But once Theo sees the pressed white tablecloths, the delicate silver utensils, the crystal glassware, he realizes it’s just luxury dressed up in casualness. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a lot of that in New York; it’s something he grew familiar with when he and Kitsey were together, the simplicity and homeliness without the lack of quality, or the reduction of price. Theo isn’t at all surprised that Boris has taken full advantage of it. He’s always gotten a kick out of seeing how the ultra-rich live, and Theo doesn’t blame him.</p><p> </p><p>The host greets them with a tight smile, and Theo realizes how they must look. Clearly hungover, Theo unshowered, Boris swaying on his feet the slightest bit. He gives them both a onceover, clearly trying to be subtle with his distaste but doing a pisspoor job of it. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you gentlemen have a reservation?”</p><p> </p><p>“Should be under Pavlikovsky,” Boris says curtly. The host checks the book and frowns before turning back to them.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course. Right this way.”</p><p> </p><p>They get seated at a table by a window, and Theo grimaces at the light. Boris laughs. The host’s smile tightens even more. He hurries off to find their waitress. </p><p> </p><p>Theo orders a cup of coffee and Boris gets two Bloody Marys. Theo rolls his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Do not judge, Potter. Not good look on you,” Boris teases. Theo kicks his ankle under the table. </p><p> </p><p>“When did you make reservations?” Theo asks. He’s half paying attention; there’s a woman with a dog on the opposite corner asking for money, and he’s trying to read her sign. The dog looks a lot like Popchyk. </p><p> </p><p>“Same time I booked hotel room,” Boris answers. It isn’t a real answer, not really, but Theo doesn’t feel like pushing it. He takes a sip of his too hot coffee, scraping his teeth along the part of his tongue that burns. </p><p> </p><p>When the waitress comes back to take their orders, Boris orders a mushroom omelette for himself, and a poppyseed muffin for Theo. Theo looks at him, utterly bewildered, eyes narrowed and his mouth half open. The waitress excuses herself and promises that their food will be out shortly. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need you to order for me,” Theo says, embarrassed. His neck feels hot, everything going a little blurry. </p><p> </p><p>“You were not going to order. Had to make you eat. Look half-dead”</p><p> </p><p>“Boris, like I said, I am an adult and if I don’t want to eat - “</p><p> </p><p>“Potter, please,” Boris interrupts, raising a hand to silence Theo, “I do not want argument. Enjoy nice breakfast and time with your best friend!”</p><p> </p><p>Theo grumbles but nonetheless drops it. His stomach feels like it’s eating itself so maybe it was a good idea anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” he says, and Boris looks at him, eyes going a tiny bit golden in the sunlight, “what have you been up to? Since Antwerp, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you know. This, that,” Boris says slyly. Theo kicks him under the table again. </p><p> </p><p>“Seriously.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, seriously? Not much of anything. Tying up loose ends,” Boris shrugs. Theo envies that, he always has. The permanent unbothered-ness Boris is able to give off, even if it is just a front. Theo has always been too on the surface. Too visible. </p><p> </p><p>“How’s Astrid?” Theo asks. The words are bitter and acidic in his mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your wife, Boris.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris squeezes his eyes shut for a split second, curses in Polish. “Oh! Of course. Yes, she’s-“</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my <em>God.</em> I fucking knew it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just had too much vodka, you know how I get - “</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not married, are you? Do you even know the woman in that picture?” Theo says. He wants it to come out hurt and offended, but his voice is heavy with fond bemusement, and he leans forward ever so slightly like Boris is telling him one of his unbelievable stories. </p><p> </p><p>Boris sighs and throws up his hands. He says, “Look, okay, am I married now? No. Was I at some point? Who is to say?” </p><p> </p><p>“The government, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off, Potter. So what, I am not with Astrid. Does not matter,” Boris says hurriedly. His face flushes the tiniest bit, blush against snow, and Theo preens at being able to make Boris change color. </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t have to lie, you know. I don’t care if you’re not married. Christ, Boris, why would you think it matters?”</p><p> </p><p>Boris says nothing. He fiddles with the celery in his cup, poking at the leftover ice. He’s not frowning, but he doesn’t look too happy either. Theo leans back in his chair. </p><p> </p><p>He hates when Boris gets like this. He did it a lot when they were younger; he would go silent, he wouldn’t look at Theo, and he wouldn’t stop until Theo either apologized or told him to go the fuck home and sleep it off. Theo prefers Boris’s usual happiness and forwardness for several reasons, one of them being that he’s more fun to be around when he’s not brooding about something. But mainly, Theo just hates seeing him sad. The more he looks at Boris the more he feels like he missed something. <em> He is always a step behind.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The waitress comes with their food, and they both thank her at the same time when she sets the plates down. She giggles. That seems to break whatever mood Boris was in. He smiles goofily across the table at Theo, an apology of sorts. Theo reaches forward and steals a bite of egg off of his plate. Boris sputters in mock offense. Theo raises an eyebrow like a dare, a challenge, <em> what are you going to do about it?  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Thief,” Boris says. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> I’m </em> the thief?”</p><p> </p><p>Boris flips him off. “Yes. I got painting back. You seem to forget that.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo laughs. He flips Boris off right back and steals another piece of omelette. Boris lets him. </p><p> </p><p>Breakfast passes in no time. They don’t talk about wives or marriages or anything else like that. Boris asks him how the shop is going, if Hobie has gotten any interesting pieces lately. He even makes a passing comment about coming over there again, but properly this time, and having Theo show him everything. </p><p> </p><p>“Could be fun,” Boris says, his voice perfectly casual. Theo’s heart flips over in his chest. </p><p> </p><p>The check comes all too soon, in Theo’s opinion. He tries to make Boris split the bill with him, but Boris tells him to put his money away, he doesn’t want it, it’s no good here. Theo huffs. He’d forgotten how stubborn they both were. </p><p> </p><p>Boris winks at the waitress when he hands the check back to her, and she giggles again. He’s had four Bloody Marys (Theo had one, at Boris’s insistence) and it’s not a big deal, Boris is just like that, but it still sends something ugly running through Theo. He tries to ignore it, because he knows it’s irrational and silly, but it settles like a brick at the bottom of his stomach. </p><p> </p><p>She’s cute, he’ll give Boris that. She’s his type, as well; her face is sharp and angular, mean looking, her hair is dark and cut just below her chin, her bangs obviously self-done but still flattering. Her nametag reads <em> Amelia. </em>Theo doesn’t realize he’s frowning at her until she gives him a dirty look and walks off. He looks at Boris, who is very clearly holding back laughter. </p><p> </p><p>“Ready to go, Potter?” Boris teases. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, whatever, let’s go,” Theo grumbles. Boris laughs, standing up. Theo follows suit. </p><p> </p><p>Boris places a hand on Theo’s lower back and guides him through the busy restaurant, which makes Theo hot all over. It’s a solid weight that he just can’t ignore. It’s going right through him, past his skin, his muscles. He feels it right at the base of his spine. Once they’re outside, he shifts away from Boris’s touch and turns to look at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Dude,” he says. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” Boris asks, cocking his head to the side like a puppy. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, the way Boris’s Ws sound like Vs sometimes. Like a vampire in an old movie. If Boris was a vampire, he definitely would have told Theo. They could be vampires together, maybe, the two of them against the world for eternity. </p><p> </p><p>Theo has to shake his head to remember why he’s upset in the first place. He looks at Boris again and deflates a little. </p><p> </p><p>“Forget it.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris throws his hands up and looks at the sky like he’s asking God, <em> Can you believe this man? </em>Theo laughs despite himself. </p><p> </p><p>The drive back to the hotel is equally silent. Theo looks out the windshield again. He’s always loved New York in the mornings. Everything is new, fresh. Everything and everyone is waking up. It makes the city feel simple, almost. Clean. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter,” Boris says suddenly.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Stay with me in hotel again tonight. I take you out to fancy dinner, buy you all the booze you want!” Boris says excitedly, but Theo can tell that underneath it, he’s nervous. </p><p> </p><p>“When do you go back?” Theo asks. He has always been very good at deflecting. </p><p> </p><p>Boris shrugs. “Whenever I want. No one waiting up for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo thinks to how he waited for Boris without even knowing it. For eight years, and then a handful of days, and then another year. He wants to say <em> I was. </em>But he doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs, mirroring Boris. </p><p> </p><p>“One more night.”  </p><p> </p><p>Boris grins.</p><p> </p><p>Despite Boris’s reluctance, Theo convinces him to drop him off at Hobie’s. He needs to get more of his stuff, and feed Popchyk, and make his bed, and check on the store, and eventually Boris stops griping and agrees to pick him up at six. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t get into my things,” Theo says as he gets out of the car, meaning <em> don’t swipe any of my pills. </em>Boris pauses for a second, then laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“Have better things to do, Potter,” he shoots back, meaning <em> you’re not the only one holding.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Popchyk greets him at the door, tail wagging happily. Theo picks him up and kisses the top of his head. He carries him into the kitchen where they find Hobie sitting at the table, drinking coffee and skimming the newspaper. He looks up at Theo, surprised but happy nonetheless. Theo smiles. </p><p> </p><p>“I take it you’re feeling better?” Hobie asks. </p><p> </p><p>“Loads. Look, Hobie, I’m sorry - ”</p><p> </p><p>Hobie raises a hand to stop him. “I won’t have any of that, Theo. You were sick, and you needed a break. There’s nothing wrong with that.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo could cry, and he doesn’t want to do that in front of Hobie so he just nods and turns to go to his room. His sheets and blankets are sitting on his bed, as are the clothes he had been wearing. </p><p> </p><p>He knows he’ll never truly be able to pay back Hobie for everything he’s done for him. Boris had said that Hobie was worried about him. That he was scared. Which means Hobie knew Theo wasn’t actually sick, but he took care of him anyways. Theo really does need to get his own apartment if he wants to stop feeling so guilty about everything. </p><p> </p><p>He packs another change of clothes and his cologne. He grabs a pack of cigarettes from his nightstand, but thinks better of it and puts them back. He can bum off of Boris. They both still buy Parliaments, after all these years.</p><p> </p><p>He makes his bed, which takes an embarrassing amount of time and effort. He’s sweating by the end of it and figures while he’s here, he might as well shower. He also knows that Boris probably chose some ridiculously high end place for dinner, and he doesn’t want to look rumpled and gritty. </p><p> </p><p>The shower feels unfairly good, washing away nerves Theo didn’t even realize he had. He pokes at his ribs, his hips, frowning slightly at how they stick out. <em> I guess that’s what a week of not eating does to you.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He can’t help but feel slightly self-conscious. He’s always been less-than-confident about his appearance, and it always had to do with how <em> little </em>he is. He liked being friends with Andy because he never seemed as scrawny in comparison. When he was younger he had been small, smaller than most of his friends and classmates. He had welcomed his growth spurt with open arms, and had selfishly relished in the fact that he had a good four or five inches on Boris now. </p><p> </p><p>He drags his palms over his sides, hoping that it will somehow magically fill everything out again. His frown deepens when it doesn’t work. </p><p> </p><p>He finishes his shower, towels off, glimpses his five o’clock shadow in the mirror, and winces. Shaving manages to push any anxieties about his body out of his mind. Boris doesn’t give a shit about how he looks. He never has, and Theo can’t imagine that he will now. </p><p> </p><p>He spends, in his opinion, entirely too long picking out his outfit. He can’t decide if a suit is too formal, but what if the restaurant they’re going to is really, really nice, and he’ll look stupid in anything else? </p><p> </p><p>He wastes a good ten minutes staring at the two different outfits laid out on his bed; one of his nicer suits he wears to lunches with very wealthy clients, and his nicest sweater with his most expensive pair of pants. They’re Tom Ford, and were a gift from Kitsey for their six month anniversary. He chews on his thumbnail, entirely unable to decide between the two. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not like this is a date. It’s Boris, for fuck’s sake. Why is he trying so hard to impress <em> Boris?  </em></p><p> </p><p>He chooses the sweater. He also puts a very expensive blazer over it, because if he made the wrong choice at least he can save a little bit of face. </p><p> </p><p>He goes downstairs to feed Popchyk, who hmphs at Theo sleepily when he wakes him up to eat. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi, buddy,” he says as the dog nuzzles against his ankle. “Boris sure was glad to see you. Did you miss him?”</p><p> </p><p>Popchyk says nothing, just cocks his head at Theo, which mirrors the Russian in question so perfectly Theo can’t help but laugh. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, me too.”</p><p> </p><p>Once Popchyk finishes eating, Theo checks the time. It’s barely 5:30. He frowns. Then he remembers the shop he’s supposed to be running, and heads towards it. </p><p> </p><p>He’s relieved to find everything looking as it should. He sees a little sign by the bell on the counter, <em> Ring for help! </em>Theo smiles. Hobie has never been any good about staying out of the workshop. </p><p> </p><p>He walks around, picks things up and puts them back down. He checks the register, not at all surprised to find it emptier than usual. It still makes him feel horribly guilty, terribly nervous. He notices that the Open sign is flipped, declaring the shop to be closed. He wonders how often Hobie actually opened the store while he was in bed. </p><p> </p><p>His phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from the number Boris had given him in Antwerp flashes across the screen.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> can i pick u up early? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo thinks <em> yes, </em>but instead he sends:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How did you get my number? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> u put it in my phone last night idiot </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo is almost positive he didn’t, but he figures he would have given it to Boris eventually so it doesn’t matter much. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sure, I’m all done here.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> great! see u soon :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo types out <em> can’t wait, </em> erases it and types <em> see you, </em> then erases that and almost sends <em> :). </em>He deletes that too and decides to let Boris have the last word. </p><p> </p><p>He heads down to the workshop to tell Hobie he’ll be away again tonight. Hobie turns away from the desk he’s working on at the sound of footsteps. It’s an old, battered thing, but Theo knows that by tomorrow it’ll be shiny and beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>“Boris and I are going out to dinner tonight, and I probably won’t be back. He’s picking me up soon, so I thought I’d say bye.”</p><p> </p><p>Hobie nods. He has a strange smile on his face, and Theo feels his stomach tighten. He realizes how that all sounded. He wants to explain, to dig his way out, but he can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound equally incriminating. </p><p> </p><p>The sharp <em> It’s not like that </em>is sitting at the front of his mouth. He bites his lip so as not to embarrass himself. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I hope you have fun. Having Boris around seems to be good for you,” Hobie says, and though his tone is mostly nonchalant and casual, Theo swears he’s being teased. His face feels red hot. He nods and turns on his heel to go upstairs. </p><p> </p><p>He grabs his bag and goes to sit on the steps to have a cigarette. His hands are shaking. Why should he care what others think, what they assume? He knows where he and Boris stand. He knows that their friendship might be seen as less-than-conventional, a bit unorthodox. No one can really blame them for that, though.</p><p> </p><p>Boris is his friend, his <em> best </em>friend, and he shouldn’t feel ashamed of him. He feels disgusted with himself for being ashamed of him. (Theo knows that it’s not Boris. He knows on some level it has everything to do with him, and his feelings, and his mashed up shitshow of a heart, and nothing to do with Boris.)</p><p> </p><p>A pair of shiny black boots enter his line of vision, which makes him realize he’s been staring at the ground for too long. His cigarette is a stick of ash by now. He frowns before stubbing it out. He looks up and sees Boris, smiling wide, shiny white teeth on full display.</p><p> </p><p>He, like Theo, changed into something less casual. He chose a dark grey button up, tucked into pressed black slacks. He probably didn’t spend almost twenty minutes picking it out. He isn’t even wearing a coat, and Theo wants to say something about him being cold, <em> Jesus fuck Boris it’s probably twenty degrees, </em> but Boris is holding a hand out to him and so he takes it, lets Boris pull him up. An old habit. </p><p> </p><p>“Why so glum, Potter?” Boris says, joking, and Theo rolls his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you fucking freezing? Why aren’t you wearing a jacket?” Theo says. He wants to offer his own coat, because at least he’s wearing a goddamn blazer underneath, but he thinks better of it. Something in him twinges slightly at the thought of Boris in his coat, the sleeves slipping past his fingertips, the hem brushing his ankles. He looks away, pretends to study a chalkboard in front of the deli across the street. </p><p> </p><p>Boris slaps his own chest twice. “Russian blood!” He exclaims, then throws his head back to cackle. Theo shakes his head in disbelief, laughing as well. </p><p> </p><p>“C’mon,” he says, knocking Boris’s elbow with his own. “Let’s go to dinner.”</p><p> </p><p>The restaurant Boris takes them to is far more intimate than Theo was expecting. It looks upscale, yes, but the lighting is dimmed and the tables are small, and there’s soft piano music playing from speakers. It reminds him of the wine bar he and Pippa went to, and his stomach sinks a bit. It’s very romantic. He looks over at Boris, who is tapping an impatient finger on the empty host stand. </p><p> </p><p>“So expensive, yet cannot hire good staff? Psh,” he says quietly, just for Theo. Theo smiles, just for Boris.</p><p> </p><p>Once they get seated <em> (finally, </em>Boris had said to a nervous and impossibly young looking hostess), Theo tries to play catch up with the last twenty four hours.</p><p> </p><p>Boris here, in New York, in his <em> room, </em> because of Hobie, because Hobie had been worried about Theo. Boris inviting him to spend the night like they were thirteen again, Boris getting him shitfaced drunk like they were thirteen again. Boris taking him out to fucking <em> breakfast. </em>Boris saving his life for the thousandth time.</p><p> </p><p>None of it makes sense. None of it has any explanation; there’s no rhyme or reason for Boris dropping everything and flying across an ocean at the first sign of trouble. It makes Theo’s head spin, his heart hammer in his chest. He takes a sip of water just to do something and hopes that Boris doesn’t notice how his hands are still shaking. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, Potter,” Boris says, and an alarm goes off in Theo’s head at the tone, <em> interrogation time. </em> “What have <em> you </em>been up to, huh? Since Antwerp.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not - not much,” he says. He tries not to wince. <em> Bad start. </em>“Mostly just working. I had to go and buy back all of the changelings, which took a few months.”</p><p> </p><p>“All of the <em> what?” </em>Boris says. He leans forward. </p><p> </p><p>Theo bites the inside of his cheek. How could he have forgotten that Boris didn’t know about the fakes? How could he have forgotten to tell Boris?</p><p> </p><p>So, he explains. Boris keeps the same slightly bewildered expression on his face the whole time - eyebrows raised the tiniest bit, lips barely parted, eyes shining with laughter and confusion. It’s not a very long story, but Theo can’t seem to get to the end of it. He keeps going off on tangents and fumbling through the more embarrassing parts. </p><p> </p><p>“And you did not try to find me, any of the times you come to Europe?” Boris says once he’s finished. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You had my number.”</p><p> </p><p>“Boris, I was <em> busy. </em>I was - oh, you’re fucking with me, aren’t you.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris leans back in his chair, shit eating grin plastered across his face. “Ha! You should have seen your face!”</p><p> </p><p>“You are such an <em> asshole,” </em>Theo says right as their waiter comes to the table. He clears his throat. Theo flushes. </p><p> </p><p>“Gentlemen. How are you doing tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>Boris snorts. </p><p> </p><p>He orders an expensive-sounding bottle of wine and a steak. Theo had forgotten to look at his menu, and he orders the first thing he reads. Pasta in cream sauce that sounds too rich for how nauseous he is. But he smiles at the waiter all the same, hoping that Boris doesn’t push him to eat the whole thing. </p><p> </p><p>Theo thinks about the last time they were like this. Not the last-last time, but the last time it was this dark, the last time they were this close. </p><p> </p><p>Theo had told Boris that he thought about him all the time. It seemed stupid then, and even more so now. Boris had asked him if he was happy. He said no. It was probably the first time he had ever admitted that to someone, save himself. It was the first time he hadn’t felt like he was failing because he wasn’t content with what he had been given. He wonders what pathetic admission of vulnerability he’ll give tonight. What intrusive yet relevant question Boris will ask him. </p><p> </p><p>To Theo’s absolute delight, none of that happens. The time passes quickly. They drink the whole bottle of wine, and Theo eats half of his dinner, and Boris offers to get them another bottle but oddly enough Theo doesn’t want to be drunk. He’d rather be sober, enjoy his time with Boris and actually remember it all. </p><p> </p><p>Boris gives him an odd look, which he seems to be in the habit of doing these days. Theo just shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> like </em>being hungover, you know,” he says. </p><p> </p><p>“Could have fooled me!” Boris says, but waves the waiter away anyways. </p><p> </p><p>The check is big and Theo reaches for his wallet on instinct, guilt quickly eating at him when he sees the sum and realizes that Boris will have to pay again. Boris kicks his ankle, a mirror of Theo’s own action at breakfast this morning. Theo wants to argue, dig his heels in, but he also realizes that there’s no way he has that much cash on him, and his debit card is sitting on his nightstand back at home. He makes a face at Boris before crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. </p><p> </p><p>“What is it that you do again?” he asks as Boris lays down a fancy and expensive looking card. </p><p> </p><p>“I am an entrepreneur,” Boris says. Theo rolls his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Whatever, furniture boy.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Excuse me?” </em>Theo says incredulously, but the waiter comes to pick up the check and Boris just smiles at him over the table. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t try to put his hand on Theo’s back again while they’re leaving, and Theo is grateful. </p><p> </p><p>Boris pulls a cigarette out of his pack with his teeth once they’re outside. Theo has to make himself look away from his mouth before he notices. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Boris says, smoke falling out of his mouth with the word, “if we aren’t drinking, what do you suggest?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo opens his mouth to say something, but closes it abruptly when he realizes he has nothing to say. He takes Boris’s cigarette from him when he offers it, an old instinct, automatic and thoughtless. Boris grins. </p><p> </p><p>“How about a movie?” he suggests. Theo can see Gyuri’s car pulling around the corner. They’d had fun, in Antwerp, watching old movies on Boris's couch, and it was something they had both loved to do when they were younger. He nods. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Yeah, okay. We’ll watch a movie.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>They can’t decide on a movie. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris, for the love of God,” Theo hisses as Boris skips through another row of perfectly good movies. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t like any of this new shit! Has no heart!” he says stubbornly. Theo leans back against the headboard, closing his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>He is both acutely aware of and fairly oblivious to the length of Boris’s leg pressed up against his own. It’s such an old, familiar feeling, sharing his space with Boris, their bodies touching at every possible point. It doesn’t bother him; he’d never ask Boris to move, or shift away from him. It just makes him feel all wobbly now. The muscles in his thigh are stiff from straining as he tries not to move. He doesn’t want Boris to think he’s uncomfortable. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah! Perfect,” Boris exclaims. Theo opens his eyes to see <em> Rebel Without a Cause </em>queued up on the television. </p><p> </p><p>He wants to ask why the fuck Starz has this old of a movie, or why the fuck Boris even wants to watch it, but when he looks over at him Boris is giving him that dumb look, mouth curved into a smug little smile, <em> eh, Potter, what do you think? </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Perfect,” Theo says quietly. Boris’s smile widens. </p><p> </p><p>As usual, the movie is only half as entertaining as Boris’s “commentary,” which is mostly just swearing in other languages and asking Theo questions about all of the slang. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know, Boris, I wasn’t alive in the fifties.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris flicks him on the forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“Ow!”</p><p> </p><p>“I know you are not so dumb. Search that big brain of yours, Potter.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo shoves Boris’s shoulder, and Boris retaliates by smacking Theo lightly with the back of his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me?” Theo says through his teeth. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t be baby! Was just a - “</p><p> </p><p>Boris cuts himself off by kneeing Theo in the thigh and using the opportunity to pin him down. Theo struggles under him, trying not to laugh. He pushes at Boris’s chest, but Boris just grabs his wrists and pins them to the headboard. He has a victorious little grin on his face, like he’s just won the game, like he has the best hand at the table. </p><p> </p><p>Theo gulps. His stomach is fluttering and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and he’s sure Boris can feel it under his fingers. It’s a weird position, Theo sitting up, back against the headboard, Boris not so much on top of him as he’s just in his lap. He tries to move out from under Boris, shifting his legs as best he can, but Boris just bares down harder. </p><p> </p><p>“Say uncle,” Boris teases. On the T.V. behind him, Jim is giving Plato his jacket. Theo gets the stupid urge to warn Plato, to tell him to put the gun down, to try to stop the disaster that’s about to happen. Plato is looking up at Jim like he hung the moon. Theo can only hope he’s not mirroring the expression. </p><p> </p><p>“We are <em>adults,</em> this is ridiculous - “</p><p> </p><p>“Have gotten too old, huh? C‘mon, Potter, put your neck into it.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s put your back into it - oh, my God, just get <em> off.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Theo tries to yank his wrists out of Boris’s hold. Boris presses him further into the headboard, leans in closer. They’re not even three inches apart, and Theo closes his eyes because it’s near impossible to not look at Boris’s mouth right now. </p><p> </p><p>“Bah. You do not give me good fight! Old man.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Boris swings his leg over Theo’s lap and settles back down next to him. Theo feels like he just died four times over, and Boris is just sitting there, watching the movie like nothing happened. What the <em> fuck.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The movie ends, and, after cursing out the director to hide the fact that he was definitely crying (“Why would I cry over stupid fucking movie?” “You’re the one who got all weepy, dude.”), Boris complains about the unrealistic ending. </p><p> </p><p>“You Americans!” He scoffs. It’s one of his favorite ways to start out a long winded rant, because it guarantees that Theo will listen to the end, just to tell Boris how stupid he is. “Always with the happy endings! Life is not so happy, eh?” </p><p> </p><p>He pokes Theo’s arm. “I don’t think it’s a very happy ending. I mean, Plato died,” Theo points out. Boris waves his argument out of the air with his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“But does Jim care? No. He has girl, parents are perfect now, everything works out! Is ridiculous.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo just rolls his eyes. Boris mutters something rude-sounding, moving off of the bed to go to the bathroom. </p><p> </p><p>“You sure you don’t want drink?” he asks, head poking out of the bathroom doorway. “Can order room service, is very nice here! It’s uh, what is the - oh! Is top shelf!”</p><p> </p><p>Theo tries not to smile. He doesn’t do a very good job. “Maybe just a bottle.”</p><p> </p><p>“Number is on nightstand. Your pick!” Boris says, then shuts the door. </p><p> </p><p>The room is strangely quiet without Boris’s constant stream of rambling, and Theo feels uneasy. </p><p> </p><p>He leans over to grab the room service menu. There’s a lot of choices, and he’s not sure what half of them really are. He’s never been particularly picky about what he drinks; his grab-whatever’s-nearest-and-go method from his teen years never really went away. Kitsey never drank anything stronger than wine, and Hobie always has some aged, imported bourbon in the cupboard. He never has to think about it. </p><p> </p><p>God, he needs to start doing things for himself. </p><p> </p><p>He gets up and walks towards the bathroom door, deciding that he can start doing things for himself some other day. He raises his hand to knock and ask if Boris has a preference between thirty or thirty five year, but Boris opens the door and suddenly they’re face to face, chest to chest. </p><p> </p><p>Theo’s question dies in his throat. Boris raises his eyebrows in surprise, then laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello there, Potter. You’ve made decision?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo looks down at Boris smiling, lips still a little purple from the wine against his white teeth. The light from the bathroom makes it look like he’s shining, like he’s a beacon of light, a flicker of hope in the darkness. Theo decides to take action for once in his life. He decides to make his own decision. He leans down before he can talk himself out of it and he kisses Boris. </p><p> </p><p>Boris responds by putting his hands on Theo’s hips and pulling him closer. Theo’s own hands are still hanging dumbly by his side, the room service menu still held loosely between his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>He’s not quite sure what to do - with his hands or in general. He places a hesitant hand on Boris’s face, cupping his cheek. Boris’s breath hitches, like he wasn’t expecting that. He probably wasn’t expecting Theo to kiss him at all. </p><p> </p><p>Theo wants to be scared. He wants to hate it. He wants to be able to say <em> well, I tried it, I guess it’s just not for me.  </em></p><p> </p><p>But Boris is rubbing circles into Theo’s hips with his thumbs, and his mouth is sweet, and he keeps scraping his teeth against Theo’s bottom lip, and it’s driving Theo up the fucking wall. </p><p> </p><p>Boris pulls back abruptly. He’s breathing heavy and his eyes are closed. He’s flushed, warm under Theo’s fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter, I - “</p><p> </p><p>“Bed,” Theo blurts out. He doesn’t know if he wants to hear what Boris has to say. “Let’s- we should-“</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Boris mumbles. He pushes Theo’s shoulders until he gets the hint and starts to move backwards, back towards his bed. </p><p> </p><p>Boris is trying to unbutton his shirt, but neither of them are willing to stop kissing the other, so it’s a lot of fingers slipping and teeth clicking. Theo’s legs hit the foot of the bed and he sits down, blinking up at Boris, who is standing in between his legs. He’s smiling, a little dazed and far away, and it makes heat pool at the bottom of Theo’s stomach. </p><p> </p><p>Boris finally gets his shirt unbuttoned. He slides it off of Theo’s shoulders and leans down to kiss his newly exposed neck. </p><p> </p><p>Theo throws his head back, groaning. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, Boris,” he whispers. </p><p> </p><p>“Is the plan,” Boris says against his skin. Theo lurches forward, accidentally shoving Boris, who stumbles backwards.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s just, I’ve never, you know.. I don’t - I don’t know <em> how - “ </em></p><p> </p><p>“Shhh, Potter,” Boris says, stepping forward and placing a comforting hand on Theo’s shoulder. Theo leans into the touch. “We take it slow. I can be the one doing the - “</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, okay, Jesus. That works.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris grins. </p><p> </p><p>He places a leg on either side of Theo’s thighs, rocking his hips forward. Theo tips forward to lean his forehead on Boris’s shoulder, closes his eyes, tries to regulate his breathing, which turns out to be extremely difficult when Boris is sitting in his lap (<em> for the second time tonight, </em> Theo thinks blankly). </p><p> </p><p>Boris cups Theo’s face and tilts his head up so that they’re looking at each other. He slides Theo’s glasses off and places them on the floor, which Theo wants to bitch about, but he can’t quite get his tongue working. </p><p> </p><p>He kisses Theo’s forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He ghosts his lips over Theo’s, and that does it. Theo leans into it completely. </p><p> </p><p>It takes a while, and it takes some getting used to, but God, is it worth it. </p><p> </p><p>Boris keeps his promise and takes it slow, drawing everything out, leaving Theo writhing and moaning and begging beneath him. Theo never begs, and maybe he should feel embarrassed, but really all he can focus on is Boris, and how he’s making him feel, and how they’re making each other feel, and holy shit why did no one tell him how <em> good </em>this could be.  </p><p> </p><p>Boris is in between his legs when he looks up at him and says, “Have I ever told you that you are most beautiful person I have seen? In all my life.” </p><p> </p><p>He places a soft kiss on the inside of Theo’s thigh, almost like a promise, like he’s sealing the words into the skin there. Theo feels a tear roll down his face before he can stop it. No one has ever really called him beautiful before, and they certainly haven’t called him <em> the most beautiful person they’ve ever seen. </em>He wants to call bullshit, or say that Boris is a sap, but Boris bites the spot he just kissed and any ability to form words goes straight out the window. </p><p> </p><p><em> Boris </em>is beautiful. Theo can’t think of any other word to describe him. </p><p> </p><p>Theo tries to touch him everywhere he can, tries to get his teeth anywhere they’ll reach. He threads his hands through Boris’s curls, tugging lightly just to see Boris’s eyes roll back, just to hear him moan. </p><p> </p><p>He’s beautiful. </p><p> </p><p>Theo can’t think about anything else. </p><p> </p><p>He’s beautiful, and Theo has him all to himself, and he’s <em> allowed </em>to think these things. It feels revolutionary. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. </p><p> </p><p>Boris keeps whispering little sentiments into Theo’s skin, like <em> have always wanted to do this </em> and <em> wondered what you tasted like forever. </em> Theo’s head is swimming, because every single one of his nerves is screaming <em> me too. </em>He has to try really hard not to openly sob every time Boris kisses him or touches him with tender hands. </p><p> </p><p>Theo comes with Boris chanting something in Polish against his jaw. He digs his nails into Boris’s back, bites his tongue to keep from shouting. His skin feels light, like cool water running over stone. He’s floating. His legs spasm out and he says Boris’s name over, and over, and over, like it’s the only word he knows. It might be. </p><p> </p><p>Boris comes with his nose pressed into Theo’s neck. He shudders and makes a noise that sounds like half moan, half sob. He kisses Theo’s cheek, his neck, the hollow of his throat. He scrapes his teeth against Theo’s collarbone and Theo shivers. </p><p> </p><p>They lay there for a while, until the sweat starts to dry and they’re too sticky to ignore it anymore. Boris wordlessly gets off of Theo, who winces and immediately misses the warmth of Boris on top of him. </p><p> </p><p>“I,” Theo starts, not even sure if Boris is listening, “can never sleep with a woman again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ha!” Boris barks from the bathroom. Theo hears the tap running, and then Boris is dragging a damp washcloth across his stomach. He must have turned off the lights while he was up, because he’s just a dark figure hovering over Theo. “Have ruined it for you, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, shut up,“ Theo retorts, but it’s true. He’s never had sex that good, and he doesn’t think it’s any of his previous partners’ faults. Maybe he’s really bad at sex. Maybe Boris is so good that it cancelled out how much Theo sucks. </p><p> </p><p>“Thinking too much,” Boris murmurs. He’s standing above Theo, brushing the hair from his forehead. Theo wishes he’d just get in bed so they could go to sleep and he could turn his brain off. </p><p> </p><p>“I think I’ve earned that right,” he says quietly. Boris climbs into bed next to him. </p><p> </p><p>“Shut brain up,” he says, pulling Theo into his chest. “Get some sleep, okay? Can talk in morning. Can think self to death in morning. But now, you sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo really can’t argue with that. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo wakes up with his head on Boris’s chest. He looks up at Boris, his face smooth and unbothered with sleep. He feels the soreness in his muscles. He remembers what they did last night. He twists out of Boris’s embrace, runs the short distance to the bathroom, and throws up. </p><p> </p><p><em> Oh my God, </em> he thinks. <em> What the fuck have I done.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He feels a bead of sweat slip down his nose, sees it land on the rim of the toilet. His hands are shaking. <em> He’s </em>shaking. He tries not to throw up again. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter?” Boris says sleepily from the doorway. </p><p> </p><p>Theo turns around. Boris is leaning against the doorframe in nothing but his boxers. His hair is mussed from sleep, and he has red marks on his chest and neck. <em> I put those there, </em>Theo thinks. He turns back around. </p><p> </p><p>“I think I’m going to go home,” Theo says. He stands up shakily, knees nearly buckling under his weight. </p><p> </p><p>Boris stares at him, face unreadable. Theo can see them in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. How ridiculous they look. Two men, half asleep, standing in the bathroom in their underwear and not saying a word to each other. Theo steps forward to leave. Boris moves to block his way. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?” he asks tentatively. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going home,” Theo says again. </p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck, Potter? What is your problem?” </p><p> </p><p>Theo doesn’t know what to say. He’s not even sure what his problem is. It’s not Boris. He <em> knows </em> it’s not Boris, but Theo can’t stand to look at him right now. His blood turns cold as he considers that it might actually be Boris. He’s never- <em> they’ve </em>never- so maybe it’s just the awkwardness of sleeping with someone he’s considered a friend for so long. Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that Boris is a man. </p><p> </p><p>But then he remembers a night, a few nights, his room dark and their hands eager, too fucked up to really register anything but skin on skin and teeth-grating pleasure. It was never awkward the next morning. They never talked about it. </p><p> </p><p>“I just want to go home. I have stuff to do,” he says. He tries to get past Boris, but Boris puts his hands on Theo’s chest and pushes him, hard. </p><p> </p><p>“Is what we did - “</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not fucking talking about this, Boris. Let me leave.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you <em> listen. </em>Is what we did shameful to you?” Boris says through gritted teeth. Theo wants nothing more than to leave. “Am I so dirty that you run away next morning?” </p><p> </p><p>“No, Boris,” Theo starts. Oh, God, there are tears welling up in his eyes, and he cannot cry in front of Boris, not when they’re talking about <em> this. </em>“It’s not you, I swear, I’m just… I’m confused, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Boris looks at him for another tense moment. Theo braces himself for a blow, for the fight that Boris is trying to start. But Boris just… lets it go. His shoulders relax and his face drops. He looks at Theo blankly, and Theo knows he fucked up. </p><p> </p><p>“Fine. Go. Text me when you get your balls back.”</p><p> </p><p>He turns and leaves the bathroom. Theo wants to scream. </p><p> </p><p>He gets dressed while Boris sits on his own bed, still made, and flips through channels. He won’t look at Theo. </p><p> </p><p>Theo walks out of the room without a word. Boris still doesn’t look at him. He feels like he’s done something dirty, something horrible and unforgivable. He doesn’t know if it’s about having sex with Boris or getting into a fight with him. The carpet in the hall is red and patterned in a way that makes Theo’s head feel like a Goddamn Tilt-a-Whirl. He smells like shame, like sweat and stale sheets and <em> Boris. </em>His stomach lurches as he gets into the elevator, which he is relieved to find unoccupied.</p><p> </p><p>The lobby of the hotel is strangely empty, and Theo realizes it’s barely eight in the morning. His shoes are loud against the tile. He avoids making eye contact with the desk clerk, ignores her smile and her gratitude for his stay. </p><p> </p><p>The cab ride back to Hobie’s is both entirely too long and too short. He gets irrationally nervous when they turn onto the street. For some reason, he doesn’t want to face Hobie. He wonders if Hobie will be able to tell what happened, if it will read on his face. </p><p> </p><p>Theo walks through the door with his head down. Popchyk scuttles towards him, tail wagging happily. He smiles at him, bends down to scratch his head. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Popper,” he coos. Popchyk yaps. </p><p> </p><p>Theo hovers between the stairs and the kitchen, wondering what will be worse. Ripping off the bandaid right away, or waiting until it falls off naturally. <em> Gross metaphor, </em>Theo thinks as he heads up the stairs. Hobie can wait. He needs to shower. He needs to get a fucking grip. </p><p> </p><p>The shower provides no clarity, nor does it do anything to get rid of the itching feeling underneath his skin. He leans his head against the tile wall, trying to catch his breath. </p><p> </p><p>What’s so wrong about sleeping with Boris? He trusts Boris, more than anyone else he’s known. He knows Boris would never hurt him or betray him, at least not without trying to fix it afterwards. He likes Boris. Reuniting with him had been a blessing, a lifeline. </p><p> </p><p>But Boris is also a man. Theo had never slept with another man before last night. Theo has never had feelings for another man. He’d had doubts, sure, when he was with Kitsey. Fleeting thoughts of <em> what if </em> that were gone as soon as they’d come. It had scared him so much each time he had been sure it wasn’t true. There was Pippa, he had reasoned, but now that argument is flimsy at best and completely invalid at worst. He can’t be. He <em> isn’t. </em>So what if fucking Boris had felt good? It was sex, of course it was good. Did it matter that it was the best he’s ever had, that it made every prior experience of his virtually insignificant? (He can never tell Boris that. It’d go straight to his head, and he would hold it over Theo forever.)</p><p> </p><p>He checks his phone once he gets out of the shower, hoping that for some reason Boris has texted him, asking him to come back to the hotel and talk things out. </p><p> </p><p>There’s no message from Boris. He tries not to be too disappointed. </p><p> </p><p>It’s Sunday, which means the shop isn’t open, which means Hobie, like usual, will be in the workshop. Theo grabs an apple on his way down there, and for some reason the taste of it reminds him of Boris. He’s pretty sure anything can remind him of Boris if he thinks about it enough. </p><p> </p><p>“Good morning, Theo,” Hobie says without turning around. </p><p> </p><p>“Good morning,” Theo says around a bite of apple. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you have a fun night?” Hobie asks. Theo’s skin tingles all over. He tries to swallow, his throat inconveniently dry. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah - yes, I did. It was, uh. It was great.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad. Will you be back to work tomorrow?” </p><p> </p><p>Theo’s chest loosens. His shoulders slump. “Yes, I think I should be.”</p><p> </p><p>“Again, I’m glad to hear it. Good to see that Boris got you feeling like your old self again,” Hobie says, turning around and giving Theo a warm smile. </p><p> </p><p><em> Not quite, </em>Theo thinks bitterly. </p><p> </p><p>He tries to distract himself by going over the numbers from last month. Everything starts to blur and swim together about five minutes in. He keeps punching the amounts into the calculator wrong, and he decides to give up the fourth time he puts in $576.80 as $807.65.</p><p> </p><p>It’s only about half past one, and he knows he shouldn’t, but there’s nothing else for him to do that’ll get rid of the horrible worry crawling over his body, so he goes up to his room and gets out his pills. He tells himself two lines and that’s it. </p><p> </p><p>He’s on his fourth (and <em> final, </em>he scolds himself) line when his phone rings. It’s Boris, because of fucking course it’s Boris. He considers picking up. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t. He shoves his phone under his pillow and presses the straw back to the pocket mirror. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo manages to wake at his usual time the next morning. He gets dressed and goes downstairs before he can think about it, determined to work himself out of all of the bullshit he’s been dealing with the past week. </p><p> </p><p>Hobie grins at him in the kitchen, points towards a plate of toast and a cup of coffee waiting on the table at Theo’s usual spot. Theo smiles back, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. </p><p> </p><p>He reminds himself to look at the apartment listings in the paper later. </p><p> </p><p>There’s only so much of Hobie’s doting he can take (no matter how much he appreciates it), so he eats as quickly as he can and heads to the shop. </p><p> </p><p>Theo is both surprised and not to see a lanky, dark figure leaning up against the front window, smoking and talking on the phone. He frowns and tries to steel himself as best as he can for this conversation. </p><p> </p><p>He swings open the door and Boris turns to face him, his stern expression melting into something softer. </p><p> </p><p>“We talk later. Goodbye,” he says into the phone, then hangs up. He looks at Theo expectantly. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” Theo says. “Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” Boris says back.</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other for a beat. Boris furrows his eyebrows, chews on the inside of his cheek. </p><p> </p><p>“Um, I’m sorry about what happened last night,” Theo says, because he thinks it might help him not feel so guilty. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry? For what?”</p><p> </p><p>“You were drunk, and I shouldn’t have - ”</p><p> </p><p>“What? I was not!” Boris scoffs, then his eyes widen, and his face drops. “Were you?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo blushes furiously. “No. I wasn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Theo starts again. </p><p> </p><p>“So?” Boris echoes. </p><p> </p><p>“Did - I mean, did what we - did that work for you?” Theo asks. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Potter, it did,” Boris says slowly, like how one might talk to a child. “Did it - ?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Theo says quickly, because he doesn’t want to hear Boris say it. </p><p> </p><p>“Then why did you run away?” Boris prods, but not angrily. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. I - Boris, you have to understand. I don’t do stuff like that. I never have, I mean, except with… except with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stuff with men?” Boris asks plainly, like it's normal, like it isn’t the worst thing Theo’s ever heard. Theo nods. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Boris murmurs. He reaches out and takes Theo’s hand, squeezing it three times before letting go and stepping back. “I take it you don’t want to do it again?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Theo repeats. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris nods solemnly. Theo shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not sure how to proceed. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not gay,” he says lamely. </p><p> </p><p>Boris shrugs. “Me neither.”</p><p> </p><p>They stand there just looking at each other for a moment. </p><p> </p><p>“I should get going,” Boris says finally. He turns to leave, reaching into his pocket to take out his phone. Something in Theo freezes, then shatters. He blinks. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris, wait,” he calls. Boris turns around. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to come back for dinner? Here, I mean. At Hobie’s.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris looks at him for a long, painful second. He bites his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Yes, I will come to dinner. What time do you want me?” Boris says, finally. Theo feels like he could melt into the concrete with relief. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s say seven.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo spends the next ten or so hours riding a wave of anxiety he hasn’t felt since Antwerp. It feels so <em> stupid,</em> inviting Boris to dinner, like he’s introducing Hobie to his boyfriend. It feels juvenile. </p><p> </p><p>Hobie, of course, had been delighted when Theo told him they’d be having a guest for dinner. It did nothing to help the feeling of <em> bringing a boy home </em>that was sitting heavy and hot in Theo’s stomach. </p><p> </p><p>Despite everything, though, Theo manages to have a fairly productive day at work. He gets the books organized, goes through the shop with a duster and polish. He even makes a sale, an old chest-on-chest to two women wearing matching rings. He tries not to stare. He tries not to be too jealous. </p><p> </p><p>He gets a text from Pippa just when he’s thinking about closing early. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> hi darling! i’ll be in town next month, and i would love to catch up!  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He smiles. He’s missed Pippa dearly, and maybe she can help him straighten things out. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sounds wonderful. See you then. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s ten till six. He shrugs, thinks <em> fuck it,</em> and closes up the shop. He goes upstairs to change, grabbing clothes out of the closet at random because he really doesn’t feel like spending thirty minutes picking out his outfit again. </p><p> </p><p>Theo hangs around the kitchen while Hobie finishes dinner. It smells delightful, and Theo’s stomach audibly growls. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. </p><p> </p><p>“Theo,” Hobie says, not turning away from the pot of potatoes he’s been mashing, “Why don’t you set the table? You know where the cutlery is.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo nods and gets to work. It helps, laying down the forks and knives and making sure the centerpiece is, well, centered. The nervousness seeps out from under his skin until it’s nothing more than a faint churning at the back of his mind.<em> It’s just Hobie and Boris, </em> he tells himself. <em> You know them. They know you. You’ll be fine.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Before he knows it, he’s steeling himself to open the door. Deep breath in. <em> It’s just Boris, </em> he reminds himself. It’s just Boris.</p><p> </p><p>He swings the door open and Boris looks up, flashes Theo a dazzling smile. Theo smiles in return and waves him in. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Theo says, a little giddy. Boris pushes the door shut behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he says back. He kicks the toe of Theo’s shoe with his own. “Are you going to show me inside?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo laughs. “Yeah, yeah, asshole, come on. Follow me.”</p><p> </p><p>Popchyk scrambles out of his bed once they enter the kitchen, yapping and running around Boris in circles. Boris laughs, leans down to pick him up.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, beloved!”</p><p> </p><p>Hobie comes in from the living room, holding a bottle of wine and a wine key. His face lights up, and he smiles. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris! It’s so good to see you,” he says, and he looks like he means it. Theo feels himself physically deflate with relief. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello! Thank you for having me,” Boris says cheerily. Theo gets the stupid impulse to take his hand. He digs his nails into his palm.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s my pleasure. Sit, sit.”</p><p> </p><p>Dinner goes off without a hitch. Boris has endless stories to tell, as does Hobie, and Theo sits in the middle of it all, warm and at peace. He eats his whole plate and doesn’t even gripe when Boris fixes him a second. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” Hobie says at one point, “tell me, what was it like, living in Las Vegas?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo freezes, a forkful of chicken halfway to his mouth. He wills Boris to keep it vague and filtered. He hasn't told Hobie practically anything about Vegas, and Hobie had never asked for more than what Theo was willing to give. <em>He's just trying to be a good host,</em> Theo reasons with himself. Boris doesn’t even miss a beat. </p><p> </p><p>“It was hot,” Boris says cheekily. Hobie laughs. “It was hot and dry and <em> boring. </em>Nothing to do but watch television! All day long!”</p><p> </p><p><em> That’s one way to put it, </em>Theo thinks to himself, but he smiles at Boris nonetheless, and Boris smiles at him, his eyes going impossibly soft. When he looks back at Hobie, he’s got a strange expression on his face, like he’s thinking very hard about something very important. He shakes his head and starts the conversation back up. </p><p> </p><p>They finish dinner and they clean up and then Hobie insists Boris stay for a nightcap, and then after three glasses of brandy Boris insists that he must get going. Theo gets a flitting, nervous sensation under his skin. He doesn’t want Boris to go. He doesn’t want to go back to the hotel. The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. </p><p> </p><p>“Give Gyuri the night off. Stay here.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris looks at him like he’s insane. He raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes in a complicated couple of expressions, flashing <em> what the fuck are you doing? </em>at Theo. </p><p> </p><p>“If that’s all right, of course,” Theo says instead of addressing Boris. He turns to Hobie. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t see why not,” Hobie says carefully, like he knows something. Theo wishes someone would just tell him what the fuck is going on. </p><p> </p><p>Once Theo gets them up to his room, Boris closes the door and turns to look at him again, the same bewildered expression on his face. </p><p> </p><p>“There are not two beds,” he says. Theo shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>“We can share. It’s not like that’s anything new.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris shakes his head, closes his eyes tight and scrunches his whole face up. “I am confused. Last time we share bed, you throw up and run out. And now - ?”</p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo says. He’s so <em> tired. </em>He’s tired of being the way that he is, tired of running and hiding and not letting himself just give in. Maybe he’ll regret it in the morning, who knows. Who fucking cares?</p><p> </p><p><em> Boris, probably, </em> a voice at the back of his mind says. <em> This is selfish. Don’t do this.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Come to bed,” Theo says at last. “Please.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris nods. He kicks his shoes off, and starts towards the bed. He sits down next to Theo. Their hands are an inch apart, and Theo doesn’t push down the urge this time. He reaches over and curls his hand over Boris’s. </p><p> </p><p>“Kiss me,” Theo says quietly. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter,” Boris warns. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo says again, pleading. “Kiss me.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris leans forward, uses his free hand to cup Theo’s cheek as gently as he can. He kisses Theo, and Theo slides his eyes shut. He leans into it. He doesn’t let himself focus on anything but slick heat and hunger and feeling good. </p><p> </p><p>He bites Boris’s lower lip and Boris sighs into his mouth. His stomach turns, and he lets Boris push him back onto the bed. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up before Boris again. Weak blue light is barely starting to filter in through the curtains. Boris has an arm draped over his waist, his head in the crook where Theo’s neck meets his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>He feels weird. Not <em> bad </em>weird, but maybe not good weird either. Just weird. </p><p> </p><p>Everywhere that Boris is pressed against him is <em> warm, </em> he’s so warm, and he remembers being a teenager and touching Boris’s face and being surprised at how not cold he was. A dull pang in Theo’s heart at the memory, <em> just ‘cause I am Russian does not mean I am snowman! </em> An indignant squawk, a jab at the ribs. </p><p> </p><p>Boris stirs next to him. He shifts and buries his head further into the crook of Theo’s neck. Theo turns and kisses the top of Boris’s head, in the unruly nest of his black curls. He closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>When Theo wakes up again, Boris is gone. He doesn’t know what to feel. He looks at his phone and sees that there’s a text waiting for him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> sorry to leave u like that :( will call when i can! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo smiles a little bit, shakes his head in disbelieving fondness. </p><p> </p><p>He gets up and gets ready for work. </p><p> </p><p>He stays cool and blank all day, and any time Boris pops into his head, he lets himself feel the pang of affection in his heart instead of ignoring it. </p><p> </p><p>Boris calls him around eight. Theo is in his room, reading. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he says, almost bashfully. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter!” Boris cheers. Theo rolls his eyes. “How are you feeling today?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine, Boris. Really.” He is; it isn’t a lie. He’s been perfectly fine all day. He wonders, briefly, if that means something is wrong. </p><p> </p><p>“I am glad to hear it!” Boris says, but he doesn’t sound all that glad. “And I am… sorry for what I am going to say.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo waits, terrified. </p><p> </p><p>“You do not want relationship, yes?” Boris asks, pained.</p><p> </p><p>Theo stalls. He didn’t even think - of <em> course </em>this is just good fun to Boris. It doesn’t mean anything. A strange rush of disappointment curls in Theo’s stomach. He swallows hard.</p><p> </p><p>“I… don’t think so. Not now, at least.”</p><p> </p><p><em> But, </em> some small, impossibly brave part of Theo thinks, <em> maybe later. </em></p><p> </p><p>Boris pauses for a second too long. When he speaks again, his voice is tight and squeaky.</p><p> </p><p>“Good to hear! I will be in town for awhile, so I will see you soon.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo feels dizzy. He nods, forgetting that Boris can’t see him. “Yeah. See you soon.”</p><p> </p><p>Another pause. Neither of them hang up.</p><p> </p><p>“Potter, I - ”</p><p> </p><p>“What, Boris?”</p><p> </p><p>“Potter, I… I had good time with you, last night.” </p><p> </p><p>A click, and the line is dead. Theo puts his phone down. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Over the next few weeks, Theo and Boris see a lot of each other. Boris will come over, or Theo will go to the hotel, and sometimes they have sex, but sometimes they don’t. Theo isn’t surprised, really, to remember how easy it is to be around Boris. He just thought that the sex would make things more complicated. But it doesn’t. </p><p> </p><p><em> Well, </em>Theo thinks, turning his phone over and ignoring another text from Boris. </p><p> </p><p>The thing is, Theo is still Theo. And he’s not even sure what that <em> means.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He gets scared, sometimes. He gets scared about what people will think, when they see Boris and him at dinner together, or snickering to themselves in the lobby of the hotel. He gets scared about what he thinks, that he doesn’t deserve Boris, doesn’t deserve this, any of it, at all. </p><p> </p><p>He hates himself viciously if he’s left alone too long. He’ll convince himself of something fantastical, improbable, that he’s nothing more than some dirty degenerate. These are the nights he ignores Boris’s calls. These are the weeks he tries to pretend like he doesn’t know what it’s like to be inside Boris, to have Boris inside of him. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to stop whatever it is that they’re doing. Some days, he can’t stand being around Boris at all. He, not for the first (or fifth or even fucking hundredth) time in his life, has no idea what to do.</p><p> </p><p>Then, there was, of course, the fact that Theo and Boris had decided to move in together. Not into Hobie’s - Theo told Boris he was apartment scouting, and Boris offered to help, <em> make it a little less boring, yes? </em></p><p> </p><p>It had been a silly idea formed in early morning sweetness, all golden light and Boris’s sleepy eyes, his roaming hands. When he looked at Theo and asked if they could maybe move in together, the word <em> no </em> hadn’t crossed Theo’s mind at all. It made sense, them living together. Theo wouldn’ t <em> (couldn’t </em>) say that he needed Boris, but it seemed that Boris knew, anyhow, without Theo telling him. Without Theo wanting him to know. </p><p> </p><p><em> That </em> was the truly horrid part of it all. Boris knew Theo completely; he knew Theo’s heartbeat, the sound his bones made when they broke, what his blood tasted like. And it was <em> terrifying. </em> Theo wasn’t going to kid himself - he didn’t like who he was, in almost any aspect, and he didn’t understand how Boris could know Theo better than Theo knew himself, and still want to touch him. He didn’t know how Boris could even stomach looking at him.</p><p> </p><p>(If the script was flipped, it wouldn’t even be a question. Theo knows where Boris has buried his dead. He knows what Boris has done; Boris betrayed him in the worst way possible, but he made it right. He made it right. Boris found Theo after eight years under an endless, open desert-city sky and he made it all right again. He would never turn Boris away for good. It’s never even been a <em> possibility.) </em></p><p> </p><p>His phone buzzes again. He turns it back over out of habit, and is pleasantly startled to see Pippa’s name instead. Of course. She’s coming into town tomorrow. And she’ll be here for two entire weeks. </p><p> </p><p>Someone either has it out for Theo or is trying their damnedest to help him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo waits at the airport for over an hour. He doesn’t mind, not really, but he would mind a lot less if he could stop nervously glancing from security guard to camera to security guard. He was, ridiculously, scared that he would be arrested on sight the second he stepped through the doors. He wasn’t, of course. Jesus, he needs a fucking Xanax.</p><p> </p><p>At the first flash of her bright red hair, Theo tries to imagine. Not having her, but being able to have her; he tries to imagine wanting her the way he did just barely over a year ago, the cold ache in his stomach and chest. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t work. He realizes that when he said <em> I can never be with a woman again, </em>he wasn’t joking. He tries to make sure his smile doesn’t grimace around the edges when Pippa finally sees him. </p><p> </p><p>“Theo! Hi, darling!” she exclaims, pulling him down into a hug. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Pip.“ He hugs her back. Ongoing personal crisis aside, it is genuinely so good to see her. “How was your flight?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo, Pippa, and Hobie catch up over lunch. It’s nice, it really is; having Pippa in the apartment feels easy, simple, natural. A far cry from whatever the fuck Theo has been dealing with lately. </p><p> </p><p>“Did Theo tell you that Boris is in town as well?” Hobie asks. Theo looks up at him, startled. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Pippa says, turning towards Theo, “he didn’t. How long is he staying?”</p><p> </p><p>“Who knows?” Theo says, then he realizes that he just sounds like an asshole. “I mean, I think he’s going to be here for a while longer, but his job has him traveling a lot, so.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who knows?” Pippa says, and they grin at each other. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d love to see him again, if we can manage it,” she continues, then turns to Hobie to begin talking about the book she’s just finished. </p><p> </p><p>Theo remembers the engagement party. He bristles a bit, at the thought of it. How Pippa and Boris had seemed, how they’d acted with each other. What would happen if they were together again? Would Theo be pushed to the side, forgotten in favor of each other?</p><p> </p><p>“Theo?” Hobie says, and Theo looks at him. “You’re scowling at the salt shaker. Is everything alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Theo mumbles. He stabs at his salad. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>Lunch finishes with a thin but palpable tension. Theo and Pippa find themselves in his room, Hobie having retired to the armchair in the living room.</p><p> </p><p>“When did you get this?” Pippa murmurs. Her fingers are barely touching the gold lighter sitting on Theo’s dresser. <em> MOTHERFUCK </em>is carved (not engraved, carved, with a pocket knife) into the side. Theo doesn’t want to tell her the truth, but he can’t think of a lie quick enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Boris gave it to me in Vegas. I think it was his dad’s, I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>Pippa hums contentedly. </p><p> </p><p>“Has he been around often? Boris, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo can’t feel his feet all of a sudden. He feels like he’s scrambling for something, like no one told him what game he’s playing. Pippa isn’t playing a game, he knows this; she’s not tricking him into an admission or luring him towards the answer she wants. But Theo can’t help but feel like he’s all turned around. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I guess. I see him about twice a week,” he says nonchalantly. It’s a major understatement. He sees Boris at least four times a week, if not more. “Why do you ask?”</p><p> </p><p>Pippa shrugs. “You just seem… happier. Like you aren’t as wound up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve offended you,” Pippa says, and when he looks at her, her face has dropped. </p><p> </p><p>“No, no, Pip. You didn’t. It’s just,” Theo fumbles. He doesn’t know what to say. This isn’t completely his to tell; he doesn’t know if Boris wants anyone to know. Theo can’t imagine that he’d care, especially since it’s <em> Pippa, </em> but Theo wouldn’t want Boris to go around telling people. He chews his lip for a second, thinking. Pippa waits.</p><p> </p><p>“Boris and I have sort of been… well, we’ve - we’ve - ”</p><p> </p><p>“Thee,” Pippa interrupts, gently. “I think I get it.”</p><p> </p><p>“But we’re not,” Theo continues urgently. “We’re not a - a thing, we’re not <em> together. </em>We just. Sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince. Pippa nods, and then drops it. She asks him if he ever finished that book about art restoration she had given him last spring, and he is endlessly grateful. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo sighs, long-suffering. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” Boris says, clipped. Theo rolls his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“I need to get dressed for work. Get off of me.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris pauses, as though he’s actually considering it. He screws up his face in a stupid expression, eyebrows pulled together, eyes to the ceiling, lips a little bit pursed. It makes Theo want to flick him on the forehead. It makes him want to kiss Boris stupid.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Boris says finally, pulling himself impossibly closer to Theo. Theo flicks him on the forehead. </p><p> </p><p>“Ow!” he whines.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you nervous about tonight? Is that what this is?” Theo says, ignoring Boris’s outcry.</p><p> </p><p>“What, I cannot just be tired? Am wiped out, Potter, just want to lay here,” Boris laments and Theo knows he is full of shit. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re usually gone by now.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he presses a barely there kiss to Theo’s collarbone, and another to his neck. Theo really should draw the line between what is and isn’t okay for Boris to do, and make sure he doesn’t cross it. He doesn’t know what is considered casual, and he’s just as guilty of kissing Boris more than once in the morning, or taking his hand in the back of Gyuri’s car. They’ve always been affectionate in one way or another. It feels natural, to just add more of it to their every day. The shift doesn’t feel monumental, except when it does, but now isn’t one of those times, so Theo allows the tingle at the base of his spine, and he puts his fingers under Boris’s jaw so he’ll look at him. He kisses him. Boris kisses him back.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t <em> you </em>have to go to work?” Theo asks once he’s made himself pull away. Boris snorts. </p><p> </p><p>“Is not fucking office, Potter. Do not have to, ah, what is the - <em> clock in.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Theo laughs, and gives one final push in an attempt to spur Boris up and out. Boris just readjusts. Theo relents. </p><p> </p><p>He knows that Boris is nervous about having dinner with Pippa tonight. He doesn’t know <em> why; </em>Boris could charm anyone he wanted, if he tried hard enough. Pippa seemed to like him when they’d met. (Theo ignores the bitter taste this leaves in his mouth.)</p><p> </p><p>Theo really does have to go to work, but Boris doesn’t spare the groaning and griping as he gets dressed. Theo throws his socks at him. Boris dodges them, laughing. </p><p> </p><p>“You can hang out in the store, if you want,” Theo says once they’re at the door. He tugs on the cuff of Boris’s sleeve. </p><p> </p><p>“No, no. Do not want to bother. Besides,” he says, looking this way and that. “I do have business. Need to make sure shit gets done.”</p><p> </p><p>The joke falls flat. Theo looks hard at Boris, who won’t look back. He makes a noise, a soft grunt of frustration, and Boris spares him a glance. </p><p> </p><p>“Seriously, Boris. What’s wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>Boris sighs. He furrows his brow, and for a horrible second he looks terribly desperate. “I do not want to embarrass you. In front of your girl.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo blinks. He shakes his head. </p><p> </p><p>“She - she’s not <em> my girl, </em>what are you - you won’t embarrass me, Boris. You know how to behave.”</p><p> </p><p>Boris just grumbles. He looks away again. Popchyk waddles up to them, butts his head against Boris’s leg.</p><p> </p><p>Theo can’t, for the life of him, figure out what’s wrong. He wishes Boris would just tell him, doesn’t understand the sudden caginess. He knows he doesn’t have much room to talk; how many of Boris’s calls have gone unanswered, how many texts has he ignored? How many times has he cancelled dinner or drinks with no explanation?</p><p> </p><p>But that’s exactly it. Theo is the one who hides, who cowers - Boris has never had a problem with being honest. He lies sometimes, but so does everyone. He always wears his heart on his sleeve. <em> Or, </em> Theo thinks, rather frantically, <em> he just wants me to think he does. </em></p><p> </p><p>Boris places a hesitant hand on the back of Theo’s neck. He pulls him in and kisses him, quickly, before letting go and stepping back. It leaves Theo feeling a bit winded. </p><p> </p><p>“I see you tonight?” Boris says quietly. He’s still awfully close. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Theo breathes. Boris nods, and then he’s out the door. Theo gets the urge to follow him. He grabs the doorframe so he doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Boris shows up fifteen minutes before Theo told him to. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re early,” Theo says instead of <em> hello.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Boris shrugs. He steps inside. </p><p> </p><p>Boris is dressed <em> to the fucking nines, </em> which is what Theo would think if he was a person who thought things like that. But he’s not, so he shakes his head to clear the thought and instead focuses on the hollow of Boris’s throat, pale and exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. He’s wearing a thin gold chain. Theo wants to make fun of him for it, but more than anything, he wants to hook his finger under it and pull Boris closer. </p><p> </p><p>He crosses his arms so he doesn’t reach out and do just that. “Are you wearing a necklace?”</p><p> </p><p>“Is just chain, Potter. Costs <em> very </em>much money,” Boris teases. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s <em> a lot </em> of money, which I <em> know </em>you know, dick.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my God,” Boris says, exasperated, and then he reaches out to tug Theo’s arm away from his chest. He holds his hand. Theo can’t decide if he wants to twist out of Boris’s grip or not. He can’t stop looking at the stupid fucking chain. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris,” Theo says, almost a warning. Boris looks at him like he couldn’t possibly know what he’s done wrong. </p><p> </p><p>“Can I help you?” he asks, eyes wide and innocent, his voice ticking up like he’s genuinely very, very confused. </p><p> </p><p>Theo furrows his brows. He feels the familiar anger and annoyance deep in his gut, but it’s colored by fondness and something Theo refuses to name. He panics. He leans forward and kisses Boris, hard and full of teeth. They’re still holding hands. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a knock on the door. Boris pulls back sharply, takes one look at Theo’s flushed cheeks and red mouth, and grins like a shark. </p><p> </p><p>Boris says, “Shall we?” He holds out his arm for Theo to take. Theo elbows him in the ribs instead.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Dinner goes - well, Theo thinks it goes fine. He can’t quite pay attention; Pippa keeps having to repeat her questions, and every time Boris says something to him, he can’t think of a single thing to say back. They both keep giving him looks, and, even worse, they both keep giving <em> each other </em> looks, like they’re saying <em> can you fucking believe this idiot?  </em></p><p> </p><p>He drains the rest of his wine. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever. It’s fine. Fuck the both of them. All he wants is to go to bed. His head hurts.</p><p> </p><p>He tries his best to provide details and shoot down embellishments for Boris’s stories about Vegas. Pippa laughs at all the right times, widens her eyes when she’s supposed to, even offers a sympathetic hum when Boris talks about his dad and the mines. </p><p> </p><p>“So, Theo never told me. What do you do for a living?” she asks after awhile. Boris smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“I am entrepreneur!” he exclaims. Pippa laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“What does that entail, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo closes his eyes. He really doesn’t care about whatever bullshit Boris comes up with to cover up the fact that he is deeply involved in organized crime. Pippa probably wouldn’t even be that surprised. Of course Theo would get involved with someone like Boris. Of course Theo would never fucking learn. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter,” Boris murmurs when Pippa goes to use the bathroom. He takes Theo’s hand under the table. Theo shakes him off. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” he says bitterly.</p><p> </p><p>“Something is wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo rolls his eyes. He reaches for his glass before remembering that it’s empty. He takes Boris’s and finishes that one, too.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, okay,” Boris says, puzzled. Theo feels his cheeks heat up a little bit. He looks down at his lap.</p><p> </p><p>Theo says, “I don’t know, Boris.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Boris affirms, so sure and confident that Theo feels like collapsing right there in the restaurant. </p><p> </p><p>Pippa comes back and smiles at how Theo is leaning against Boris’s shoulder. He’s too tired to care.</p><p> </p><p>The check comes, and they get up to leave, and they drop Pippa off at Hobie’s, and without realizing it Theo is following Boris to the hotel. He barely remembers leaving the restaurant. He barely remembers dinner at all. </p><p> </p><p>He sits down on the unused bed. He feels fuzzy, inside and out, like his skin and muscles and bones are just static. Boris is moving around in the bathroom. He tries his best to follow the sounds of the tap running, a cap closing, a comb clattering onto the counter. He tries his best to stay here in the hotel room with Boris, and not drift off somewhere else.</p><p> </p><p>When he opens his eyes (he hadn’t even realized they were closed), Boris is standing in between his legs, but not in a way that suggests he wants anything other than to be close to Theo. </p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Boris says softly. He cups Theo’s face in one hand, and Theo leans into it without much thought. “I dreamed about you. So much. Almost every night. Just you.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo swallows. He doesn’t know what to say. When Boris leans down to kiss him, he lets him. When Boris goes to unbutton his shirt, he lets him. When Boris wants to fuck him, he lets him.</p><p> </p><p>Theo enjoys himself, and he <em> wants it, </em>but every time he tries to feel anything about it, it slips through his fingers like oil. Just slippery nothingness. </p><p> </p><p>Boris fucks him, and he allows it, and Boris falls asleep with his mouth pressed to Theo’s sternum, and Theo leaves before Boris wakes up, before the sun has even risen. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t talk to Boris for three days. </p><p> </p><p>On the fourth day (the fourth night, really), Pippa knocks on his door. He lets her in.</p><p> </p><p>“Why is Boris texting me to ask if you’ve died?” she says. Theo suddenly feels horribly embarrassed. </p><p> </p><p>“Pip,” he says, and he’s so tired, and scared, and he doesn’t know what the <em>fuck to do.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Pippa says, “Okay,” very matter-of-factly, and claps her hands together once. “Hobie went to dinner with the DeFrees. We’re getting drunk. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>She holds at her hand, and Theo just stares at it. Then, “Theo, I’m worried about you.”</p><p> </p><p>He follows her downstairs and lets her pour two very generous glasses of wine. He drinks half of his in one gulp. Pippa just rolls her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m assuming,” she starts gently, “that this is about Boris.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo shakes his head. “I don’t know. What if - what if I have feelings for him?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know, Theo. What if you have feelings for him?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo shakes his head again. He slumps back against the couch, and Pippa follows. They lapse into a comfortable silence. Popchyk crawls onto Pippa’s lap. Theo thinks. </p><p> </p><p>Just because he’s sleeping with Boris doesn’t mean he - it doesn’t mean that <em> they - </em> sometimes sex is just sex. Theo has slept with plenty of women, and he’s never had feelings for any of them. With Kitsey, it was more of an <em> excitement </em> than a <em> want; </em> he was finally getting it, getting the girl, getting his happy ending. He didn’t so much care about her as he did what she represented. </p><p> </p><p>So no, it’s not like he has to have feelings for Boris, he’s just attracted to him. Which is fine. There’s nothing inherently wrong with finding another man attractive; Theo has regarded plenty of other guys in his life as handsome. There had always been a likable arrogance present in Tom Cable when they were school together, one that made him (to thirteen year old Theo) undeniably attractive. And he, upon first seeing what Platt looked like all grown up, had a fleeting thought of<em> oh, wow. </em> He didn’t think that was strange, nor should he feel ashamed. </p><p> </p><p>And then there was Boris. Boris, to Theo, was and still is very, very handsome. His face was just something you wanted to look at forever, something you never grew tired of seeing. Theo had thought, on more than one occasion (though he’ll never admit it), that he might not mind seeing that face every day for the rest of his life. It’s everything to Theo, in a way. He owes Boris almost everything in his life. </p><p> </p><p>What was so wrong with that? He likes Boris, and he likes spending time with him. The sex isn’t even a major factor (not that it isn’t stupidly, unfairly good), he and Boris just have a good time with each other, doing whatever. He thinks it‘s important to at least be able to tolerate the company of someone you plan on sleeping with more than once. </p><p> </p><p>Boris is fascinating, and funny, and eccentric and stupid and infuriatingly intelligent all at once. He’s developed a habit of slipping Russian into everyday conversation, so Theo will ask him to repeat it, and Boris screws his face up funny when Theo fucks up the pronunciation, <em> of course, you were never good student, Potter. </em> They repeat the word or phrase back to each other half a dozen times. Theo has a limited, useless vocabulary list at the back of his mind now, brain supplying automatic Russian upon seeing things that remind him of Boris's “lessons.” Making coffee, he remembers Boris teaching him <em> fucking hell </em> when he burns his tongue. In the shower it’s <em> easy, easy, calm down. </em> The cab ride to the Lower East Side to meet Boris for dinner or drinks after work is <em> see you soon, can’t wait, very excited.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He’ll be the first to admit that he’s started to almost anticipate spending time with Boris, a hurrying desire to see him when it starts getting closer and closer to closing time, to the end of each sale. a desperate scrambling in the bottom of his stomach. Glancing at the clock every two seconds, cursing at time and it’s stupid, slow, linear progression. He always misses Boris when they’re apart, however short. He longs to see him seconds after he leaves in the mornings. He feels disoriented and upset if Boris is gone before he wakes up. He'd rather always have Boris with him, or at least a permanent guarantee that he will be back. </p><p> </p><p>Because Theo is all too aware that Boris can just up and leave whenever he wants. He's not missing anything by leaving New York. He can have anyone in any country, people smarter and stronger and a million times more fit for Boris than he ever will be. Theo is a stop, a quelling of a long desire to see, to test out, push boundaries and have control for once in their lives. But Boris has probably long grown bored of Theo and his whining, his insecurities and faults. His hesitation and shame and wishy-washiness. His outbursts, his denial. He deserves someone better. Theo will never be good enough for Boris, and Boris will leave once he finds someone better. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh my God,” Theo says out loud, on accident, startling Pippa and Popchyk. </p><p> </p><p>Pippa turns to him, eyes wide with concern. </p><p> </p><p>“What? What is it? Are you okay?” she says quickly, urgently. Theo blinks. </p><p> </p><p>“I have to talk to Boris.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s half past one, Theo, he’ll be asleep.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo laughs, suddenly and much too loud, and Pippa looks at him like that was the wrong thing to do. He apologizes. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong, lovely? Just talk to me. I know I'm not Boris, but I’m still your friend.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo suddenly feels like an asshole, which is not an unfamiliar feeling, but it still makes him queasy. He can talk to Pippa. She's his friend. His best, even, right next to Boris. Theo realizes he only has two friends, unless he counts Hobie, and he can’t decide if that’s even more pathetic. </p><p> </p><p>“I need... I need to ask him, um, if we’re still on for lunch tomorrow,” he finishes lamely. </p><p> </p><p>“Theo,” Pippa says, voice both flat and full of disbelief. “You haven’t spoken to him in four days. Please, just tell me the truth. What’s on your mind?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo puts his head in his hands and groans for a few seconds. Pippa pats his back. </p><p> </p><p>“I miss Boris. I wish he was here,” Theo says quietly, muffled because of his hands. He hopes a bit selfishly that Pippa didn’t hear him. </p><p> </p><p>“I know that much,” she says. Theo picks his head up, frowns. “But it’s not fair to do this to him, and not tell him how you feel.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just casual - “</p><p> </p><p>"It can’t be casual if you two are best friends who see each other nearly every day. If you guys are about to<em> move in together.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Theo startles, unable to remember telling Pippa about the apartment scouting. <em> Boris, </em> he thinks angrily, fondly, <em> you bastard.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I don't,” Theo starts. Pippa waits. </p><p> </p><p>“I'm <em> not,” </em> he tries. Pippa takes his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Theo,” she says gently. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my God,” he says again, slumping back against the couch. Pippa nestles into his side and he puts an arm around her. A year ago, the mere thought of being in this position with her would have winded him. But now, it’s nothing more than simple comfort, soothing and steady. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?” Pippa murmurs after a few quiet minutes. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m tired,” he says, which is both a deflection and the truth. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me you’re okay first. Please,” Pippa says, voice going slightly thick with tears.</p><p> </p><p>He had told her, of course, about his attempt in Amsterdam. Though he’d thrown away both of his letters (He hadn’t written one to Boris. He feels horrible about that every single day.), he felt like they deserved to know. Pippa had taken it better than Boris at least, hadn’t hit him or cursed at him. Instead, she’d pulled him into a hug and didn’t let him go for about twenty minutes. She didn’t ask him why, or tell him it was selfish, or do any of the things he was terrified she might. She had told him that she loved him so, so dearly, and that she and Hobie and Boris would be completely lost without him. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m okay. I promise,” Theo says after a long moment. </p><p> </p><p>He finishes the rest of his wine, and desperately wishes for something stronger. He really wants a line, of anything at this point, but he promised to cut back (like Boris has <em> any </em>room to talk) and he doesn’t think Pippa would be very comfortable with it, either. </p><p> </p><p>More than anything, he just wants Boris, wrapped around him in bed, rubbing sleepy circles into the center of his chest and kissing his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>He wants Boris to be here so bad it feels like his ribs are breaking. </p><p> </p><p>The penny drops.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Theo says quietly. “Oh. I love him.”</p><p> </p><p>Pippa pulls back and fixes him with a look. “What do you want to do about it?”</p><p> </p><p>So, they come up with a plan.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Theo stares down at his phone. This shouldn’t be hard. It’s a phone call. He takes a deep breath, dials, and puts his phone to his ear. It rings, and rings, and then finally, someone picks up. </p><p> </p><p>“Kitsey?” Theo says, and he fully expects to get yelled at. </p><p> </p><p>“Theo! It’s so good to hear from you!”</p><p> </p><p>He pauses for a second, thrown off guard.</p><p> </p><p>“It - it is?”</p><p> </p><p>Kitsey laughs, airy and sweet. Theo knows that laugh, and it’s genuine, or at least as genuine as they ever got with one another. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course, silly. Is everything alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Theo says, and he’s so relieved to not be lying anymore. Well, almost. “Everything is wonderful.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m happy to hear it. I’m - I’m sorry, Theo, for how I behaved the last time we spoke.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo, if he’s being honest, had almost forgotten about that night completely. The fact that he was high off of his ass didn’t exactly help. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it. I should have come to see you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess we both could have done things a bit better,” she sighs, and Theo knows she means <em> I guess we both should have tried harder to pretend.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he says quietly, and hopes that she knows he’s really saying<em> I'm glad we didn’t.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Kits, I actually needed to ask for a favor.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?” she says. Theo bites down on his shame and guilt. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you think, if you still have them, do you think I could get the earrings I gave you back? The emeralds?” </p><p> </p><p>Kitsey pauses. Theo waits, anxiety making his mouth dry. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Theo,” she says affectionately, but in the way one might talk to a friend, “Of course. They were never really mine, anyhow.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo is taken aback at how honest she is. It’s true; they were never hers. They belonged to Theo, and anyone he gave them to had to be <em> his </em>as well. Kitsey was only his superficially. They have always belonged to different people. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. Thank you, Kitsey, really,” Theo says. </p><p> </p><p>“Forgive my bluntness, but if I might - are you giving them to someone else?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo wants so badly to tell her the truth. He doesn’t know why. He wants to tell her his plan, what he’s feeling, all of it. Mostly, he realizes, he wants to try to apologize for never loving her like he should have, to explain why his priorities were never what they should have been. </p><p> </p><p>“I am,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. “I’m not getting married but - yes. Yes, I'm giving them to someone else.”</p><p> </p><p>He both does and doesn’t want her to ask who it is. He doesn’t know if he would lie if she did. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so happy for you,” she says softly. “Come by my place tomorrow afternoon, around one? I can give them to you then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will Em let me in?” Theo asks, because it’s the first thing that comes to his mind. </p><p> </p><p>Kitsey laughs. “I'll make sure of it.”</p><p>
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</p><p>Theo gets the earrings from Kitsey. (Em hadn’t been home. Kitsey had hugged him for a long, silent while, and when she pulled back she looked like she could maybe cry.)</p><p> </p><p>When he gets home, Hobie is standing in the kitchen, moving flowers around a vase on the table. He smiles when he sees Theo, then points to an envelope sitting on the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“Boris left that for you while you were out.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo’s heart drops to his stomach. He nods absently and grabs the envelope. He walks upstairs, slow and automatic, trying not to think up a thousand different terrible possibilities, and failing miserably. </p><p> </p><p>He shuts his door behind him and stares down at his hands, at whatever Boris has left for him. Maybe it’s nothing. Suddenly, he can’t wait any longer.</p><p> </p><p>Theo tears open the envelope with greedy fingers, being very careful to not rip the actual letter inside. </p><p> </p><p><em> Theo </em>is scrawled on the front in Boris’s loopy cursive. It makes Theo’s heart twist and kick and scream inside his chest. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Potter, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I have realized over these past few weeks that you are the love of my life. I have wanted to tell you this for a very long time. I have wanted to tell you this since we were children, really, but I wasn’t quite sure then. I am sure now. I know this will only scare you, and it will only hurt you, so I think it is best I go. You should have someone who does not make you angry, someone who has not betrayed you in the worst way possible only to beg for your forgiveness and accept it as though they deserve it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It's funny, how Boris's English is always more polished in his writing. Theo knows he’s crying, but he blinks away the tears as best he can and keeps reading. It feels like the flooring is falling out from under him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I wish I could show you how much love you deserve. Because I love you, Theo. With my entire heart, body, and soul. I am sorry I didn't say it enough (or at all) when I had the chance. But I know you. I do not need you to return my love. I just want you to know that you have it. And you will forever. Please do not feel like you have to come and find me just to let me down. You do not owe me anything. You have given me more than you could ever know, and I will be forever grateful.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo wants to scream. How fucking dare Boris say that Theo doesn’t love him. How fucking dare he think that Theo would let him just leave like that, after Theo finally got him back. He doesn’t know how to live without Boris, not really. Boris is - well, not half of his heart, but he has it fully, to himself, and he will for as long as he wants it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Please take care of yourself. I do not want to get a call months from now telling me you’re dead. You have to stay alive, Theo. Not for me but for yourself.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Everlasting love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>                          Boris </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Theo doesn’t even have to think. He races downstairs, only aware enough of what he’s doing so he doesn’t trip. He grabs his coat from the hook by the door.</p><p> </p><p>“Theo?” Hobie says from behind him. He whips around, eyes wild, breath heaving. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m - I have to go, I have to catch up with him - “</p><p> </p><p><em> “Theo, </em> calm down. Tell me what’s going on.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Boris! He’s - he,” Theo stops. He isn’t sure how to say <em> he wrote a letter confessing his love to me and then left under the assumption it was unrequited, and I need to find him to tell him that I’m in love with him too.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Is he okay?” Hobie asks. He looks worried.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, he’s fine, I just need to talk to him.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s horribly aware that he’s losing time by standing here and bumbling like an idiot. Hobie just nods, makes a shooing motion with his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t let me keep you.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Theo swings the door open and flies down the steps. He’s halfway down the block with a stitch forming in his side before he realizes that he has no idea what airport Boris is going to, or what time his flight leaves, or if he’s even leaving New York at all. He’s only certain that his letter wasn’t a suicide note by the <em> please do not feel like you need to come and find me just to let me down.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He wants to grab Boris by his stupid, gorgeous face and yell <em> why do you always think I’ll let you down? Why do you never have any faith in me?  </em></p><p> </p><p>He pats the front of his pants, relieved to find that he had the forethought to bring his phone. Boris might not answer him, or he might have disconnected his number, or, even worse, blocked Theo’s number, but Theo doesn’t have a lot of options. It takes him a few tries to get his phone unlocked because his hands are shaking so bad. He clicks <em> Boris </em> and tries not to throw up while he lets it ring. </p><p> </p><p>It rings once, twice, three times. Theo feels like chucking his phone into the middle of the street. On the fifth ring there’s a soft click, and a rush of air on the other end. Theo still wants to throw his phone. </p><p> </p><p>“Potter?” Boris says, confused and hesitant, like he wasn’t expecting Theo to call and he’s scared of what he might have to say. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris, you son of a bitch!” he shouts, which isn’t the best way to start this, but his body is thrumming with more non-drug related energy than he’s had in the past... ever, really. </p><p> </p><p>“Look, I am so sorry - “</p><p> </p><p>“No, Boris! You don’t get it! You can’t just do that to me! You can’t - it’s not - God, how could you think I would be okay with that?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pause. Theo pushes his glasses up and presses the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbing hard enough so that he’ll see spots. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought it would be okay,” Boris says quietly, dejectedly, “because you wouldn’t have to see me after. Would not have to face it.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo swallows down the scream trying to claw itself out of his throat. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris, I don’t think you understand. I - “</p><p> </p><p><em> I love you, too. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my whole life, save my mother. I can't do this without you. Those eight years we were apart, I wasn't living. I was just going through the motions, trying to scrape by. You make me want to live. I need you, Boris. Please don’t leave</em>. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't say that. He <em> can’t </em>say that - it’s too much, too soon, and his tongue is heavy cotton in his mouth. He clears his throat and tries again. </p><p> </p><p>“Boris, you can’t tell me I’m the love of your life and then leave before I get a chance to respond.”</p><p> </p><p>“Would hurt too much, did not want heart to get broken. Is selfish, I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“God, you’re so fucking stupid!” Theo hisses. A teenager glances over at him and giggles. He lowers his voice. “Why are you so sure I'd break your heart? I’m not good with this, with - with words, or feelings, but I love you, Boris.”</p><p> </p><p>It lands flat and heavy between them, in the empty space of the phone call. He hears Boris inhale. What he wouldn’t give to be able to see Boris's face right now. He tries to keep going, knows that he owes Boris more than a skimpy I love you, knows that he has to make up for all the time they lost. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you. I’m - I'm <em> in </em> love with you. And... you should be here, because we’ve tried the whole being in love while miles apart thing, and it didn’t work out very well, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s so fucking <em> bad </em>at talking, Jesus, he wants to shove everything he just said back into his mouth and start over. But Boris is laughing on the other end. The dam breaks, and warm relief floods through Theo. </p><p> </p><p>“Wow, Potter, when did you get so poetic?” Boris teases. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, fuck you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Have already done that,” Boris says smugly, and Theo can feel his face flush. “You are at shop, yes?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo looks around, newly embarrassed at his outburst, realizing he’s been standing in the middle of the sidewalk for ten minutes. He moves to lean against a storefront. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” he says. </p><p> </p><p>“Good. Can be there in fifteen. Wait for me?”</p><p> </p><p>Theo grins. “Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Boris comes over, and he kisses Theo as soon as he opens the door. Theo laughs into Boris’s mouth and takes them up to his room. </p><p> </p><p>He gives Boris the earrings. Boris pretends not to cry. Theo pretends to make fun of him for it. </p><p> </p><p>They move out of Hobie’s a week later, and Pippa comes over her final day in town. She grins at the both of them the whole time. Theo doesn’t feel embarrassed or terrified the whole night. It’s a new personal record. </p><p> </p><p>Theo lets himself love Boris, and Boris is allowed to love Theo. </p><p> </p><p>Something in the both of them shifts, clicks into place. Like a key turning in a lock. Like after ten years of <em> wanting, </em>finally being able to kiss him. Like the world tilting the right way again after all this time. </p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HOLY SHIT I'VE BEEN WRITING THIS SINCE EARLY MARCH</p><p>jesus fuck. hope you guys like this! come yell at me on tumblr if it so pleases you @bloodyknucklez</p></blockquote></div></div>
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